Lead Me Wild
by iamthelightening
Summary: Beacon Hills is the newest target in a pattern of attacks on werewolves designed to 'out' them as a violent threat to humanity. Derek Hale should have more important things on his mind than wondering what Stiles Stilinski sounds like getting fucked into a mattress. [AN: Updates will be posted every Thursday]
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One 

"You know," Stiles said as he leaned heavily on the pool table, watching as Lydia cheerfully decimated Scott, "You know who'd be really great at pool?" He reached sleepily for the pint of beer he'd placed on the edge of the table and would have sent it crashing to the floor if it weren't for Scott and his werewolf superpowers. "Thanks Scott!" he retrieved the glass from his friend, sloshing only a little on his shirt before managing to make mouth meet glass.

"Derek," Stiles continued. "I bet Derek would be really, really great at pool." Allison arched her perfectly shaped eyebrow at him before sharing what appeared to be a meaningful look with Scott. He would investigate that further, but later. Now, he wanted to finish his beer – and then maybe get another one.

When Lydia had presented them all with fake IDs for Allison's birthday, Stiles had been obsessively concerned that they'd wind up getting busted at a bar in Beacon Hills by his dad, so he'd made Scott drive them to the next town over. At first he hadn't been too impressed with the pub they landed in, a little local spot called Terry's. The chrome lighting could only make up for so much, and he'd barely choked down his first pint.

Stiles had never really liked beer. Whoever thought that drinking something that smelled and tasted like vomit was a good idea was sorely mistaken. Only it hadn't seemed so bad after his second glass, and now that he was working on his fourth he found it quite enjoyable. Plus, the warm, beer-buzzy feeling made him want to hug everyone.

"Why do you think Derek would be good at pool?" Lydia leaned over the table and effortlessly sunk the eight ball, making Scott groan in frustration.

"Hmm?" Stiles asked absently, his attention fixed on his hands where he was carefully sending a text to a contact named 'BigBadWolf'.

**We are playing p ool. You should comeplay.**

"Why," Lydia repeated indulgently, "do you think Derek would be such an excellent pool player?"

Stiles looked up from his phone and stared at her. "You've seen his arms, right? He's got arms like… like a freaking lumberjack." He'd never actually seen a lumberjack—did lumberjacks still exist?—but he bet they had arms just like Derek's. All big and burly and thick with muscle.

His phone vibrated in his hands and he blinked rapidly down at it, trying to focus on the words.

**Where are you? Are you at a bar? **

And then,

**IS SCOTT WITH YOU?**

Stiles glared down at the screen. There was no need for yelling. Really.

He took another long swallow of his beer, enjoying the cool slide of it down his throat, before typing a reply.

**Yes scott. yes bar. TERRYS.**

He could yell too. So there. Smirking, Stiles placed his now empty glass onto a nearby table and looked up to see Lydia staring at him.

"What?" He asked, defensively.

"Who are you texting?"

"Who am I texting? What, seriously?" Stiles rolled his eyes. "Derek. Obviously. So he can come beat you at pool." With his arms, he felt like adding, but maybe he'd said too much about Derek's arms. Or had he just thought too much about them? Whatever. He'd bet his shirt that Derek's giant arms would be a match for Lydia's giant brain.

With that, Stiles eyed his nearly empty glass and made his way towards the bar. He hoisted himself up onto one of the stools and slapped a hand down on the worn surface of the wood.

"Barkeep!" He called, grandly, and then beamed at the ancient looking man in a grimy sports jersey who was sitting beside him. He loved this place.

Thirty minutes later, Derek pulled into the parking lot of Terry's with a screech. He unbuckled his seat belt and was out the door in a blur of motion. He could see Scott's mom's car parked a couple spaces down and strode purposefully into the bar with a low growl.

The bar was so dimly lit that even with his keener-than-human senses it took his eyes a moment to adjust before they focused on Scott, standing at a pool table watching Lydia teach Allison how to play. He couldn't see Stiles and felt a momentary flash of concern.

It wasn't that Stiles was Derek's problem, exactly, but if Stiles got into trouble it was a sure bet Scott would be close behind. At least that's what Derek told himself, because there was no reason for him to be worried about Stiles. Except for right now, clearly, because four seventeen-year-old high school kids should not be in a bar on a Tuesday night. He would bet a great deal of money that Stiles had spearheaded the venture.

He began to head towards Scott when he caught a familiar whiff of scent. It was a particular scent that he only ever associated with Stiles, fragrant sweetness with a lick of heat, like a cinnamon heart. Head cocked and eyes narrowed, Derek sniffed inquiringly at the air until he found its source.

Stiles was leaning eagerly into the personal space of the man sitting beside him at the bar. By the looks of it, the man was getting very exasperated.

With a long-suffering sigh Derek changed course and made his way over to his wayward charge.

"…and most people don't even realize that Spike was originally supposed to die in season two," Stiles was saying, arms waving emphatically, "But what would Buffy have done if they didn't keep him around? She couldn't even have sex with Angel without him turning evil, which is terrible chemistry. I mean, think about it. But Spike was always evil. Their love was," He paused, eyes locked earnestly on the other man's. "Epic." And then he gave a loud yelp of surprise as Derek's large hand closed over the back of his neck.

"Sorry, sir," Derek placated the man, and diligently ignored Stiles squirming under his grip. "My kid brother's had a bit too much to drink. I'll get him out of your hair."

The man grunted something that might have been a thanks and turned back to his beer.

Derek tightened his hand around Stiles's nape, pressing closer to lever Stiles off his stool and marched him towards the pool table where the other three stood, looking guilty.

"You've settled up?" Derek fixed his eyes on Scott, who nodded. "Good. Outside. Now."

With Stiles still firmly held in front of him, Derek strode out of the bar. Lydia, Scott, and Allison trailed after him like ducklings.

Glancing around, Derek led them to where Scott's car was parked at the end of the lot. He finally released Stiles, and the boy opened his mouth to let Derek know exactly how he felt about being pulled out of the bar by the scruff of his neck, but Derek spoke before Stiles could form the protest.

"Scott, did you drink any of Allison's beer tonight? Or Lydia's?" He asked, with a quick glance at both girls. His voice was as rough as it always was, but the worried set of his jaw had Stiles swallowing the sarcastic comment he had finally decided upon.

"Um, no," Scott replied, puzzled. "I don't think so, anyway. I only had one drink. And why drinking their beer would be worse than drinking my own?"

"He didn't," Lydia spoke up. "Allison and I were both drinking raspberry ale—he would have noticed if he accidentally took a sip of ours."

"Okay." Stiles could feel Derek relax minutely beside him. "That's good," he said.

"What the hell then, man?" Stiles finally exclaimed, his arms flung out dramatically. "I invite you to Terry's to play some nice friendly," he emphasized the word, "pool, and you barge in like... like some sort of grumpy force of nature and drag us out to ask if Scott accidentally drank lady beer?" He pushed a finger into Derek's chest, barely making a dent in the firm muscle. "So what, because Scott's a werewolf now he has to be manly all the time? He has to drink Big Angry Man Beer like you?"

Derek blinked down at Stiles. "I—no. I don't care what kind of beer Scott drinks. Not," he added, glaring at Scott "That he should be drinking any beer when he's underage."

"Then why does it matter if I had some of Allison's?" Scott was beginning to sound annoyed as well.

Derek huffed, answering reluctantly. "There's been a… an incident. A pack was out at a bar and one of the female members had her drink spiked with GHB -"

"A date rape drug?" Lydia asked, eyes wide.

"Yeah, only her reaction was very different than it would've been if she were human. Instead of becoming sedated or compliant she became hyper aggressive. If it hadn't been for her Alpha noticing her eyes changing and getting her out before she completely turned, who knows how many people — how many humans — she could have hurt. As it was, she nearly crippled a member of her pack." Derek's mouth was a thin line of worry. "I can't ban you from drinking alcohol, Scott, since you still refuse to join my pack. But — for the safety of everyone around you — you should stick with bottled beer that you open yourself."

"Okay," Scott said, his face serious.

Stiles was so close to making a joke about someone trying to roofie a werewolf and winding up with a fanged and clawed very much not-victim. He actually opened his mouth to speak when the implications of what that would mean for a bunch of innocent bystanders hit him. Stiles felt slightly ill, remembering the time Scott had tried to kill him in his first few months of being a werewolf. Stiles knew how deadly an out-of-control werewolf could be and couldn't imagine what would happen if one of them wolfed out in the middle of a crowded bar. Actually, the more he thought about it, the more he began to think he actually would be sick.

While the others continued to talk, Stiles lurched his way towards the back of the bar. If he did wind up puking up four pints of beer and several dozen chicken wings, he at least didn't want to do it in front of everyone. He still had some dignity left.

Once he'd rounded the corner, Stiles leaned against the cool brick of the wall, breathing deeply. He felt less like getting sick now, but the buzzy out-of-control sensation he'd been enjoying for most of the evening suddenly made him panicky. He shouldn't have had this much to drink — he shouldn't have had anything to drink. What if something had happened to Scott? What if someone—some spineless worm of an asshole—had slipped a date rape drug into Allison's drink and Scott had ingested it and started wolfing out? Stiles wouldn't have noticed Scott changing. There was no way. Half the night he'd been sitting at the bar. And even if he had seen Scott's eyes glowing their bright wolfish gold, Stiles wasn't sure he'd have been clear headed enough to get Scott the fuck out of the bar before he hurt someone.

Jesus Christ, what if Scott had wolfed out and hurt Allison? Stiles would never have forgiven himself. And Scott would never have forgiven him either.

Stiles' stomach gave a vicious lurch and suddenly he was on his knees, retching violently.

By the time his stomach had emptied up its entire contents, Stiles was weak and shaky. Pushing himself up off the ground with one hand, he used the other to wipe at the sweat that beaded on his brow. His mouth tasted sour and his eyes stung with tears, half from the force of heaving and half from self-disgust. All Stiles wanted to do in the entire world was to crawl directly into his own bed but, before he could, he would have to go out and face Scott and Allison and Lydia. Oh, god, and Derek.

Maybe if he were lucky Derek would've already left and there would only be his classmates left to mock his inability to hold his alcohol.

Stiles rubbed quickly at his eyes to destroy any trace of tears and took a deep, steadying breath before heading back around the corner to the parking lot, his usual shit-eating grin back on his face.

Stiles's grin faltered as he stepped into the parking lot and realized that Scott (and Allison, and Lydia) had disappeared. With the car. His eyes swept the parking lot a little desperately, hoping maybe he'd just forgotten where they'd parked, but nope. There were a couple beaten-up old trucks scattered close to the bar's entrance, and then there, at the other end of the parking lot, was Derek. The older man was leaning back against the side of his sleek black car and looking for all the world like he'd rather be anywhere else. Stiles could relate.

Slumping his shoulders in defeat, Stiles made his way across the parking lot towards Derek, muttering several unflattering things about Scott's parentage.

"So what, did you scare off my ride?" He asked once he got close enough. He could see Derek's lips quirk slightly which only made him scowl.

"I don't know why you'd want to ride home with someone whose father—"

"Ah, werewolf hearing. Right. Because that never gets old," he rolled his eyes. Despite the fact that he'd thrown up his last couple of beers, there was still enough alcohol in his system that Stiles knew he wouldn't be sober for a while yet. Now that Scott and the threat of him wolfing out was gone, though, Stiles kind of missed the giddy carelessness he'd felt earlier in the evening. Now he just felt thick-headed and irritable.

Derek pushed himself off the car and pulled open the passenger side door. "Come on, I'll take you home."

Stiles gave a curt nod of assent and slid into the seat. The interior of the car was dark, though the dash glowed with some sort of fancy sound system. He snapped on his seat belt and absently rubbed his fingers over the smooth leather of the seat.

"Why'd they go without me?" He asked as Derek pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway. He could see Derek glance over at him, but kept his eyes fixed on the dashboard.

"I told them to."

"Why?" He couldn't keep the hurt and anger out of his voice.

"Because I could hear you puking. Scott could too, but I figured you wouldn't want the girls to know." He glanced back over at Stiles, one eyebrow arched. "Especially Lydia."

Stiles flushed and glared out of the window. He'd had a massive and crippling crush on Lydia for as long as he could remember. Lately, though, he found himself thinking of her with a more brotherly affection. It was as though as soon as he knew her as a real person and not just his dream girl his feelings had begun to fade and shift into something different.

"You're welcome, by the way."

Stiles's glare darkened but he mumbled a 'thank you' anyway. He supposed it wasn't Derek's idea of a great night to have to drive his drunk—and probably reeking of vomit—ass home.

"Oh _shit_!" Stiles smacked a hand to his forehead and then found himself thrown into his seatbelt as Derek nearly swerved off the road. "Sorry, sorry!" He winced.

Derek turned his head once again to Stiles and glowered, his hands clenched tightly into fists on the steering wheel.

"Sorry," Stiles squirmed under the intensity of the older man's furious eyes. "I just remembered—you can't take me home. I told my dad I'd be staying over at Scott's and I can't, like _cannot,_ go home drunk. Not if you ever want to see me alive again."

"What makes you think I want to see you again, alive or dead?" Derek asked dryly as he turned back to face the road.

"Just like, as the decent human—er, were-being—that you are. Most decent people don't want to see other people dead. It's like a thing." Stiles could tell that he was rambling, but the dull leaden feeling in his stomach had eased off. Something about Derek's presence, no matter how annoyed, made him relax.

"And what," Derek's grin flashed big and white in the darkness of the car, "Makes you think I'm decent?"

"Um," Stiles swallowed and tried desperately not to think of how indecent he'd like Derek to be. These relatively newfound feelings of pure and unadulterated lust were drastically different than what he'd felt towards Lydia. He could barely have envisioned kissing her. It felt too much like, well, not to go all Shakespearean, but, as though she was something far too beautiful for him to profane with his unworthiest hand.

Yeah. Stiles was the biggest dork in the world. And he was never going to get laid.

With Derek, on the other hand… Stiles had absolutely no trouble imagining Derek on his knees in front of him, his lips wrapped around Stiles's cock and—and he'd better stop this train of thought right now, because he could feel himself hardening in his jeans.

Glad that the darkness of the car hid his deep blush of mortification, Stiles shifted uncomfortably in his seat and forced himself to think of Coach wearing lingerie.

"You can stay at my place, if you can't go home." Derek sounded less than enthused.

"I'd say thanks—but I've seen your house, remember? Do you even own any furniture that's not, like, crispy?" As soon as he said it Stiles wished he could take it back. Probably not the best idea to remind the _werewolf _he'd be spending the night with about his _dead family_. He imagined how he'd feel if someone made a joke about his mom. "Sorry," he said hastily. "Sometimes my mouth moves before my brain has a chance to catch up. It's a problem. I'm working on it." He slunk down in his seat. He was beginning to wish this entire night hadn't happened. "You can just take me home, if you want."

"It's fine," Derek said, "I've moved."

Stiles sincerely hoped Derek's new place had a spare bed, or at least a couch. He did not want to have to sleep on the floor.

Just thinking about sleeping made his eyelids suddenly heavy and Stiles leaned his head back against the headrest. They were still at least twenty minutes outside of Beacon Hills and Stiles thought it might be best for everyone if he took a quick nap. He couldn't say anything else incredibly stupid if he was asleep. Well, hopefully not, anyway.

Derek sighed as he pulled up in front of his place. Stiles was fast asleep in the passenger seat and it was amazing how non-threatening the kid seemed when he was sleeping. Awake, Stiles was a terrifying whirlwind of energy and intelligence that Derek had trouble keeping up with, but for some reason always found himself enjoying the chase. Here though, Stiles looked like a normal seventeen-year-old boy, with nothing on his mind but girls and lacrosse. He felt a pang of guilt, knowing that it was his family's fault that Stiles's reality now included Kanimas and hunters and werewolves. He'd hoped the fact that the kid was still human would be enough to keep him safe, but it was becoming clearer to him that when Peter turned Scott he had put everyone in Scott's life in danger.

On the other hand, as he ran a speculative eye over Stiles's prone form, Derek suspected Stiles was too smart and too inquisitive to have ever been content living the life of an average teenager.

Deciding it was time to head in, Derek leaned on the horn for the pure pleasure of watching Stiles try to jump a foot in the air, arms flailing and eyes panicked, only to be jerked back by his seatbelt.

"Jesus Christ," Stiles said, weakly, sinking back into the chair as he realized that there was no alarm going off, and he wasn't tied up, and that Derek was actually just that much of a dick. "You could have just been like, 'Hey Stiles, wake up'."

"Hey, Stiles," Derek flashed his teeth in a wicked grin. "Wake up."

"Douchebag," Stiles muttered under his breath, knowing full well that Derek could hear him. Unbuckling his seatbelt, Stiles opened his door and got out of the car. Craning his neck back he looked up at the huge unlit building in front of him. "Hey," he called as Derek moved around the car to his side, "Are you sure we're in the right place? This looks like some sort of old abandoned warehouse where at least a dozen people have been murdered in totally unrelated events over the past couple decades."

"Home, sweet home," Derek winked and headed towards the giant steel doors, keys jangling in his hand.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Stiles's eyebrows shot heavenwards. "I'm going to die in here."

The door opened with a horrible creaking noise and Derek vanished inside. Not wanting to be left standing alone outside of Murders R Us, Stiles scrambled after the werewolf.

Author's Note

Hello, and thank you for reading my fic! This is the first chapter of a larger piece so I'm already several chapters ahead, and will be posting a new one every two weeks. Podfics are soon to follow. I'm really excited about this fic, and I hope you stick around :)

I couldn't do this without my betas - the wonderful Halite who makes sure all my canon is correct, and my lovely partner Paradisgatan who ensures I am understood.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two 

As he stepped inside the warehouse, Stiles gave a wary look around him. The inside was as cavernous and imposing as the outside, but, from what he could see in the light of the single bulb hanging over him, it was empty. Save for Derek, of course, who was leaning nonchalantly against the doors of one of those archaic elevators that resembled a cage more than anything. Seriously, what was with this guy and leaning on things? Not to mention his apparent affinity for decrepit and uninhabitable living conditions.

The door clanged shut behind him and Stiles gave a stifled yelp, darting forward. He heard Derek give a wry snort of amusement and made a face at the werewolf as he slowed to a walk. "You know, when most people move they tend to upgrade," he commented, as Derek pushed open the elevator doors and gestured for Stiles to enter.

"What makes you think I haven't?" Derek hit the button on the inside of the elevator and it started moving upwards with a shuddering jerk that had Stiles, still feeling the affects of the beer, grabbing at Derek's arm to steady himself.

"The fact that you're living in a warehouse—hah, a _were_house, get it?"

Derek did not appear to get it, as he simply raised an eyebrow. The man had no sense of humour. Stiles suddenly realized that he was still clutching at Derek's bicep—his very, very muscular bicep—and hastily pulled his hand away as the elevator came to a sudden halt.

Derek opened the doors and Stiles walked quickly through. They were in a small entryway, a large sliding metal door with several suspicious looking dents in it standing in front of them. Stiles was pretty sure that at least one of them was from an axe. Derek stepped past him and unlocked the padlock before sliding open the door.

Please, please, don't let there be rats, Stiles prayed as he followed Derek into the dark room. There was a large bank of windows opposite the doorway and Stiles could make out the faintest hint of another spacious, empty room by the orange glow of the streetlights below as Derek pulled the door shut. At least if there was no furniture there'd be nowhere for the rats to hide, he reasoned. Though this would also mean he'd be sleeping on the floor. And if there weren't rats, he'd bet there were bugs. He gave a small shudder, his skin suddenly crawling with a hundred imaginary insects.

He jumped, startled, as Derek placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him further into the room. The warmth of Derek's hand seemed to burn through the thin fabric of his t-shirt into his skin and Stiles fought the urge to lean back into the touch. He wished he weren't still so drunk. Or no, he wished that he were more drunk so his mind would stop racing a million miles a second and just let him enjoy the contact.

Clearing his throat he found his voice. "Yeah, hi, once again: not a member of Team Supernatural. I can't see where I'm going. It's pitch black."

"Don't you trust me?"

If Stiles didn't know any better he could have sworn Derek sounded a bit upset.

"I—uh—sure. I mean I trust you not to eat me, but, uh, not necessarily to stop me from walking into a wall."

Derek huffed out a breath and Stiles would have bet a lot of money that he was rolling his eyes. "Fine." He stepped away and Stiles tried not to feel too disappointed at the loss of his touch. A light flickered on and Stiles blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness.

Well, he hadn't been wrong about standing in a vast and empty cavern. The only piece of furniture he could see was a dusty, old table standing by the windows.

"Lovely," he said dryly. "I can't wait to see where I get to sleep." He wondered whether he'd be safer from bugs under the table or on top of it.

Derek stepped up behind him and for the second time that evening encircled the back of Stiles's neck with his hand. Stiles swallowed, hard, and brought back the image of Coach in women's underwear as Derek's hand tightened and he brought his head down to speak in Stiles's ear. "For someone who needs a place to crash, you're not being very grateful."

Stiles could feel the tips of his ears flush. He was being an ass. He knew that. But sarcasm was his time-honoured shield and he didn't know how to act around Derek without it. Derek left him off-balance and nervous and Stiles reacted to that with bad jokes.

"You're right, I'm sorry." He knew Derek probably wasn't happy about having to babysit a drunk teenage boy who wasn't even a member of his pack. He should be thankful that Derek hadn't just dropped him off outside of his house and left him to face his father. "Thank you," he said sincerely. The hand at the back of his neck relaxed and after a lingering second—or had Stiles just imagined that?—it dropped away.

"Come on." Derek nodded to a spiral staircase in the left corner of the room.

As they made their way up the stairs, Stiles couldn't help but admire the way Derek's black jeans stretched over his ass as he climbed. It was probably due to this incredibly distracting visual that he somehow managed to trip over his own feet and slam his shin painfully into the iron stair in front of him.

"MOTHERFUCKER!" He pushed himself back to his feet, one hand grasping the rail for support as he bent down to rub at his bruised shin. Derek, unfazed, continued climbing the stairs.

"I'm fine, by the way." Stiles could feel his eyes stinging with the sharp throbs of pain radiating from his leg, but he'd have bitten it off sooner than admit yet another weakness to Derek. Fuck, he wanted a drink.

Derek unlocked another door at the top of the stairs, this one much smaller than the one downstairs. Stiles wasn't sure what he was expecting to find behind it. He just hoped it held some sort of soft surface that he could sit down on.

Derek stepped inside the room and switched on the light as Stiles, teeth gritted against the pain, walked to the doorway and stopped short.

It was as large and open as the room below them, but that was where the similarities ended. The floors were covered with hardwood that gleamed as if brand new and the space was fully furnished. To Stiles's left there was a large L-shaped couch facing a big screen TV, with a matching armchair and a dark wooden coffee table. The room opened up further into a kitchen on the right, which was at least three times the size of the one at Stiles's house, with an island and bar stools in the center and seemingly endless shiny countertops. Beyond that, the room was dark and Stiles assumed that Derek's bedroom occupied that end.

He gave a low whistle, impressed. Stiles had never really thought about it before, but the Hales had been a wealthy family. In retrospect, he supposed Derek had inherited most of their money, which would explain how Derek was able to afford to turn the top floor of a warehouse into a surprisingly stylish loft.

"Not bad," he said and made his way over to the couch to flop down. Before butt could meet cushion, though, Derek was shaking his head and gesturing to the dark bedroom beyond.

"The bathroom is through there and to your right. Go get washed up before you sit on my couch. There should be an extra toothbrush in one of the drawers."

Stiles sighed dramatically to indicate how much of an inconvenience this would be for him, but he grudgingly followed Derek's direction. Truth be told, he was glad for the opportunity to wash his face and once he'd brushed his teeth he felt about a thousand times better. Running a hand through his hair—it wasn't as short as it used to be, he was thinking of growing it out—he looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked pale, but at this point it might be due as much to how tired he was feeling and not just the puking. Hopefully Derek would have a spare blanket and he could just stretch out on the couch and sleep. Though actually, he wouldn't mind something to eat, first. His stomach growled at the thought.

Drying his hands on the towel, Stiles returned to the living room, glancing around to see that Derek was grating cheese in the kitchen and that a frying pan sat on the stovetop. He unconsciously gave a pathetic, grateful moan and slid onto one of the bar stools. "What are you making?"

"Eggs."

"Bacon too?" Stiles tried not to sound too hopeful.

"Yes."

Stiles moaned again. "I could kiss you,"

Derek turned slowly to face him, his eyebrow raised. "Is that so?"

"I—um—" Stiles stammered, colour high on his cheeks. "Figure of speech. You know. What are you drinking?" He thought an abrupt change of topic might be best.

Derek's gaze seemed to rest for a second on Stiles's mouth before he turned back to the stove. "Beaujolais."

Stiles stared blankly at the wine glass beside Derek. "Wine."

"Yes."

"Can I have some?"

"You drink wine?" The incredulity in Derek's voice had Stiles sitting up straighter, a stubborn tilt to his jaw.

"Yes. I love it. I drink it all the time." He'd never had a sip in his life.

"Alright then, glasses are in that cupboard," he nodded to one on the other side of the kitchen. "Help yourself."

Smirking, Stiles got off the stool and went to grab a glass. He brought it to where the bottle sat open by the fridge and filled the glass nearly up to the top. Careful not to spill, he got back onto his stool and took a large gulp. His eyes began to water immediately and his face twisted into a horrible grimace at the taste.

"Great," he said, strangled.

"I'd hope so," Derek replied with his back still to Stiles. "It's an eighty dollar bottle."

Stiles, stubbornly in the middle of another gulp, choked.

"You drink eighty dollar bottles of wine?" He asked once he recovered. It was his turn to sound incredulous.

Derek shrugged as he placed several strips of bacon on the frying pan. Stiles thought he looked a little embarrassed as he reached for his own, much more polite, glass of wine. The delicate glass looked absurdly fragile in his large hand. Stiles felt suddenly hot all over and he didn't think it was only because of the wine.

"It was Peter's thing," Derek said, "I wanted to impress him, so I'd drink it too. Then I guess I just started to like it." Derek's sudden bout of honesty and personal information left Stiles speechless. To cover it up he took another, more cautious sip of the wine. He supposed it wasn't as bad as beer.

His stomach gave another loud growl and Derek pulled the bacon from the stove, placing it on a plate in front of Stiles. He arched an eyebrow at how full Stiles's glass of wine was, but merely said, "Wait for the eggs." Stiles nodded vigorously and as soon as Derek's back was turned he grabbed a piece and stuffed it in his mouth, not caring that it was almost hot enough to burn.

"I said, wait."

Stiles stuck his tongue out at Derek's back, and drank some more wine. He thought he was beginning to enjoy it. Or at the very least, he was enjoying how it made him feel.

After what seemed like an eternity, Derek finally slid a plate full of cheesy scrambled eggs in front of him. Stiles made a happy sound in his throat and dug in with the fork Derek provided. He paused for a second to grab another slice of bacon and noticed Derek staring at him.

"What?" He asked around a mouthful of bacon.

"Did you seriously just drink that entire glass of wine?"

"Yeah," Stiles returned to the eggs. They were seriously delicious. They might be the best eggs he'd ever had. Not that he'd ever tell Derek that. Mr. I-Drink-Expensive-Wine-and-Have-a-Secret-Penthouse -Derek. Like who did he think he was anyway, a supervillain? That was the only kind of people who had secret lairs—though he supposed Derek was a werewolf, and that was pretty close to being a supervillain.

He finished his last mouthful of egg and pushed the plate away. Derek snatched the remaining piece of bacon before Stiles could get to it and stood to rinse the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. Stiles gazed mournfully after the bacon as it disappeared into Derek's mouth. He had a really nice mouth, Derek. If Stiles were a piece of bacon, that's where he would like to end up.

He lifted his glass back to his lips and then frowned, realizing it was empty. "Can I have more? Since you ate all the bacon, I think it's only fair."

Derek looked like he might be prepared to debate that notion. Instead, he simply looked up at the ceiling as if praying for patience and brought the bottle of wine over to the island. He topped off his own glass and poured Stiles a very small amount. Derek thought Stiles had had more than enough alcohol this evening. He'd hoped that the greasy breakfast food would mop up what remained of the beer in the kid's system and when Stiles had asked for wine he'd (foolishly) assumed that Stiles would be so turned off by the taste that he wouldn't make it past the first sip. He should have known better.

Stiles pouted at the tiny amount in his glass and looked as though he was ready to protest, but seemed to think better of it. He looked over at Derek who was watching him with wary eyes. Stiles sighed. He knew that look. That was the look he'd been given by every single teacher and every single adult in a position of authority after they'd realized that Stiles was more than they bargained for. What followed was always one of two things. One, they'd decide it was best to just ignore him completely, or two, they'd do everything in their power to make him fall in line. For his own good, of course. He could never figure out which reaction he hated more.

He couldn't help the fact that his brain didn't run quite like other peoples' any more than he could help the fact that he was just generally smarter than the vast majority of people he'd met in his life. Until Scott, Stiles had never had someone who liked that about him. Scott was probably still the only person, other than his dad, of course, who did. He knew Allison was his friend now, and probably Lydia too. But that wasn't the same. They didn't actually understand how terrifying it could be, being Stiles. They just thought he was this odd sort of goofball who had moments of entertaining genius. They had no idea what it was like actually being in his head.

"What's wrong?" Derek's voice was sharp with concern, and Stiles realized he'd been frowning at the countertop for too long.

"Nothing, sorry." Stiles gave a lopsided grin. He seemed to be apologizing a lot this evening. Purposefully brightening his expression, he brought his glass up to toast Derek.

Now it was Derek's turn to frown. "You're lying."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are—" Derek gave a frustrated growl that did not actually sound as though it could come out of a human throat. Stiles's eyes widened and his tongue darted out to wet his suddenly dry lips.

"Do that again," he prompted, leaning forward in his seat.

"I will not."

"Come on! Does your throat actually shift on its own or something? How does that work?"

"I don't know."

"How can you not know?" Stiles made to cross his arms over his chest and lean back in his chair—except, as he remembered at the last second, he was sitting on a stool, not a chair. His arms shot out to grab the lip of the island before he overbalanced and he just barely managed to catch himself.

"Okay, how about we move to the couch?" Derek picked up the wine glasses and walked over to place them on the coffee table. He stood and waited while Stiles, with much eye rolling, acquiesced.

Flopping back against the dark blue pillows, Stiles decided that moving to the couch had been an excellent idea. Not that he'd admit as much to Derek, but as soon as his body had hit the cushions he'd relaxed and the tense knot that had formed in his stomach when he caught Derek's wary glance was nearly dissolved. He knew by now that he should just be used to that kind of reaction, but he always found that it hurt.

Whatever. He would finish his measly little glass of wine and then spread out over the incredibly comfortable couch and go to sleep. It wasn't like he really cared if Derek liked him or not. Just because he wanted to climb on top of Derek's lap and rub his face all over that dark stubble and nip along Derek's firm chin did not mean that he had a crush on the guy or anything.

He propped himself up on his elbows and let his eyes wander over to Derek, who was sitting upright on the short half of the L. The soft material of the black t-shirt he wore clung to his chest, and Stiles wondered what it would be like to slide his hands up and under it and feel Derek's skin hot against his palms. He'd bet Derek's muscles would flex and tense under his touch and that thought had Stiles digging his fingers into the couch to stop himself from reaching out.

Not that he didn't know what Derek's chest felt like—he vividly remembered earlier this year when he'd spent what felt like hours in the pool clutching at a paralyzed Derek, trying to keep the two of them afloat as Jackson-the-Kanima had prowled along the edge of the water. But the entire time he'd been desperate and terrified. It was not exactly the ideal time to cop a feel. Since they'd both escaped relatively unharmed, however, the pool had become one of his favourite go-to jerk off fantasies. He had little trouble imagining a soaking wet and fully dressed Derek pushing him up against the side of the pool, shoving a leg in between Stiles's, and lowering his head to growl filthy things in Stiles's ear while his chest crowded up against him and caught his breath in his throat.

He really, really needed to stop thinking about Derek's body. It's just that it was such a nice body. So big. And strong. And sitting across from him. And scowling.

Oops. Stiles had been staring again.

This wasn't the first time this evening that Derek had caught Stiles watching him with heat in his eyes. Over the last month or so he had been trying to ignore how Stiles's scent tended to spike sharply with desire whenever he saw Derek. For a while, he'd reasoned that Lydia's presence had caused it, but it soon became apparent that she was not always around when it happened. It made Derek uncomfortable—not Stiles's attraction to him, but the fact that Stiles was unable to hide it from him. Had Derek been human he probably would have been unaware until this evening that Stiles was even remotely interested. But Derek wasn't human, and so no matter how perfectly Stiles hid what he was feeling, Derek could smell it on him. It made for an imbalance of power that, at least in Derek's mind, made Stiles firmly off limits. He couldn't make any kind of advance towards Stiles, no matter how much he might want to, because he knew Stiles wouldn't say no. Derek wouldn't touch Stiles without his full consent and that couldn't happen unless Stiles was the one to initiate something. Just because Stiles's body wanted something didn't mean his brain did as well, and Derek refused to take advantage of that.

This was why he could only sit and scowl as the heady scent of Stiles's arousal thickened and the boy looked at Derek with hungry eyes. It took nearly every ounce of Derek's willpower to stay on his side of the couch and not climb across to press hard, urgent kisses to Stiles's mouth until he was writhing desperately beneath him. The image was so clear in his mind that Derek's fingers tightened unconsciously around the glass in his hand and it shattered, wine spilling over his lap and a sharp shard of glass slicing into his palm.

"Fuck," Derek bit off the curse and fought the instinctive urge to leap to his feet. Doing so would only send broken pieces of glass onto the floor and god only knew where else. "Stiles, can you get the garbage bin from the kitchen and bring it over here?"

Stiles, who had jumped to his feet, nodded and raced to the kitchen to pull it out from under the sink. He paused for a second to grab a roll of paper towels and returned to the couch. Placing the garbage bin beside Derek so he could easily pick the shards off his lap and the surrounding couch and toss them in, Stiles pushed the coffee table out of his way and knelt on the floor in front of Derek.

It took Derek a second to understand that Stiles was picking up the few pieces of glass that had made it onto the floor and he forced himself to focus on the broken glass, and not the fact that Stiles was literally kneeling between his legs. Pulling the glass that had embedded itself in his palm out proved to be ample distraction. Despite the fact that he was an Alpha werewolf and—as Stiles had stated earlier, a Big Angry Man—Derek couldn't help a sharp indrawn breath as he watched the glass slide out of his skin and bright red blood follow in its wake. Stiles was there instantly, a large wad of paper towel in his hand, plucking the bloody piece of glass from Derek's grasp and tossing it into the garbage before pressing the paper towel into the palm of Derek's hand.

His touch was surprisingly gentle. Derek opened his mouth but found it dry and he had to swallow before he could speak.

"Thanks," he couldn't help the tone of surprise. He knew that Stiles was bright, of course, but he wouldn't have expected anyone to be this competent after drinking the amount that Stiles had in the last hour.

Stiles looked up to meet Derek's eyes, the wry smile on his lips showing that he knew exactly what Derek was thinking. "I'm good in a crisis—you should know that."

"Yeah, I guess I do," Derek murmured, thinking of the time that Stiles had saved him from drowning, or worse. His eyes moved searchingly over Stiles's face, trying to puzzle out what it was about this boy that he found so compelling. Stiles flushed at the scrutiny and bent his head down to look at Derek's hand as he pulled the paper towel away to examine the wound.

"I'll be fine in a couple minutes. Werewolf healing." Derek's voice was rough even to his own ears, and it didn't escape his notice that he could easily have pulled free of Stiles's hand, but hadn't.

"It looks like you've already stopped bleeding." Stiles took the paper towel away completely and dropped it in the garbage bin. He made to get up but paused, the briefest hesitation, before he placed his hands carefully, one on each of Derek's thighs, and pushed himself up so that he was kneeling upright.

Derek froze, eyes wide and breath shallow. Stiles pressed in closer until his mouth was a hairsbreadth from Derek's. He stilled, but Derek could hear the rapid beat of his heart.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"Stiles," Derek said, not sure how to continue with the boy crowded in so close between his spread legs. He wasn't sure how to think with Stiles's wine-sweet breath ghosting over his lips. Derek swallowed, eyes dropping to Stiles's mouth before he pulled back as much as the couch would allow and spoke again, more firmly, "_Stiles_."

Stiles ignored him. He pressed in again, fingers digging into Derek's thighs and brushed his lips lightly over Derek's. Derek made a choked noise in his throat and his hands came up to cup Stiles's face and deepen the kiss.

Stiles's lips parted eagerly under Derek's and he delved into that wet heat with his tongue. Stiles tasted intoxicatingly like wine and Derek surged forwards until their bodies were pressed together in a firm line. Stiles's hands moved up Derek's thighs to slide behind Derek's back and slip up under his shirt. The sharp bite of fingernails on Derek's skin had Derek breaking off the kiss. Stiles took the opportunity to nuzzle into Derek's throat, rubbing his cheek along the thick stubble.

This was a bad idea. Stiles was drunk and, like any teenager, he was just feeling horny. Derek needed to stop this before it went any farther. He should never have brought Stiles back to his place, knowing what he did. He should have just dropped the kid off at his own house and left him to deal with his father.

Derek placed his hands on Stiles's shoulders and gently pushed him back. "You're drunk, Stiles. This isn't what you want to be doing."

"Yes, it is." Stiles was absolutely sure there was nothing else he'd rather be doing.

"You won't think so in the morning."

"Yes, I will." He could see where this was going, and was suddenly very angry. He stood. "I'm not a kid, Derek."

"Stiles, you're seventeen and you've been drinking. A lot. You don't know what you want." Derek got to his feet, avoiding Stiles's gaze as he picked up the garbage bin and brought it back to the kitchen.

"I want you."

Derek turned to look at Stiles who was still standing, furious, in the middle of the living room.

"I want you," Stiles continued, "and I know you want me, too."

At Derek's silence a triumphant gleam entered Stiles's eyes, and he visibly relaxed. Derek was instantly suspicious.

"It's not that simple," he gritted out, preparing himself for a fight.

"Okay." Stiles seemed to be unconcerned and he sat back on the couch before toeing off his sneakers.

"It's not," Derek insisted. He didn't know why Stiles wasn't arguing with him. Stiles never passed up the chance to argue, and he certainly never passed up the chance to tell Derek he was an idiot. Maybe Stiles was actually way more drunk than Derek had realized—which meant that kissing him was something Derek definitely should not have done.

Fuck. He was tired and stressed out and guilty and confused and hopelessly turned on and Derek just wanted to go to sleep so he could wake up and pretend this night had never happened.

"Can I have a blanket?"

"What?" Derek focused back on Stiles who had sprawled out over the couch. "Don't –" he started forward but stopped himself. He thought it might be best if he didn't get within touching distance of Stiles for the rest of the night. "There's probably still glass on the couch. You shouldn't sleep there. You can take the bed."

Stiles bounced up off the couch, eyes gleaming. "I saw your bed when I used the bathroom earlier. It's a big bed. More than enough room for the both of us."

Derek, who had just placed the garbage bin back under the sink, blanched. He was able to picture far too easily what might happen if he were to crawl into bed with Stiles.

"I'll take the couch."

"There's glass on the couch," Stiles countered with a smirk.

"I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure." There was no way he was going to get any sleep tonight anyway, not knowing that Stiles would be lying just a few steps away in his bed.

"Alright, have it your way." Stiles got up and made as though to head into the bedroom, pausing suddenly as though a thought just struck him. "Oh, you probably want to shower."

"What?" Now Derek was picturing Stiles in his shower and he had to step closer to the island to hide how appealing that thought was to him.

"You know, the wine." Stiles gestured to his crotch and Derek felt his face heat as he fought not to look.

"Right." The wine. The wine he'd spilled all over himself that had soaked through his jeans and was now uncomfortably sticky. He would really like a shower. "You won't mind?"

"Nope. Take all the time you need." Stiles sat back down on the couch. "I'll just watch TV or something."

"Okay." Derek wasn't sure how he felt about leaving Stiles unsupervised. At least it was a safe bet that the kid didn't know how to use a corkscrew so his wine would be safe. "I'll just be a couple minutes," he added, hesitating in the door of his bedroom.

"Great," Stiles dismissed him with a casual glance and picked up the TV remote. As Derek closed the door he still felt a bit uneasy, having no idea what was going through Stiles's brain. At least he could just send the kid packing off to bed once he got the wine washed off, and then this night would be over. Giving one last lingering glance to the door behind him, he stepped into the bathroom.

As soon as Stiles heard the shower start he bolted up from the couch, pausing only to turn off the TV, and slipped quietly into Derek's bedroom. He knew he only had fifteen minutes, max, before Derek emerged.

Even as he'd brought his lips up to kiss Derek, Stiles wasn't sure of the reaction he'd receive. He'd been drunk enough that for one of the few times in his life he'd felt reckless. He figured that even if Derek had completely, firmly rejected him, he'd at least have gotten to kiss him. Then at least he'd know that there was no chance so he could try and move past this. What he hadn't anticipated was the strength of Derek's reaction, and as Derek's tongue had slid into his mouth Stiles had been grateful that he was already on his knees because if he'd been standing he was sure his legs would have given out with shock and the sudden desperate need that had him rock hard and aching.

When Derek had pushed him away he'd thought that was it. That maybe Derek had kissed him back just for the hell of it but decided that he wasn't really into it after all. But for all of Derek's protestations of why they shouldn't continue, one was noticeably missing… Derek wasn't turning Stiles down because he wasn't interested; he was doing it out of some misguided sense of nobility. And that was definitely something Stiles could work around. If he was good at anything it was wearing people down until they eventually did exactly what he wanted.

So with that in mind Stiles decided that he would wait in Derek's bed for the man to emerge from the shower. Not only would he get a chance to see Derek nearly naked and probably still wet, a thought that had Stiles unconsciously licking his lips, but he'd also give Derek a chance to see just how great Stiles would look in his bed.

Unbuttoning his jeans and dropping them to the floor, Stiles sat down on the edge of the bed to pull off his socks. The bed was huge, probably a king if Stiles had to guess, and the sheets were a purple so dark it was almost black. He yanked his shirt up over his head and tossed it to the floor in a pile with the rest of his clothes. Stiles knew he couldn't ever compete with Derek or Scott for a perfectly muscled physique, but he knew he wasn't bad to look at. Sure, with his clothes on he tended to look a bit scrawny, but he did play lacrosse (even if he never made it off the bench during a game) and he'd gotten into the habit of working out in order to slow his brain down when his thoughts started whirling out of control. He'd caught Danny checking him out a time or two in the locker room, so Stiles knew that once his shirt came off he did not disappoint.

He thought his pale skin would actually work to his advantage on the dark sheets, so he slid between them. The bed was almost obscenely comfortable. Stiles shifted around for a minute, trying to decide how to best show off his torso. Man, this really was a comfortable bed. Maybe the most comfortable bed he'd ever been in. It was so big he could sprawl out as much as he wanted and there was still more room. The shower was still going, so Stiles thought he'd just close his eyes for a second and snuggle down into a pillow while he waited for Derek to get out. As soon as the shower stopped he'd flip so he was lying on his back, not his stomach like he was now, and give Derek an eyeful of his chest. He'd just take a minute or two and rest his eyes.

When Derek had turned off the shower and hadn't been able to hear the sound of the TV he sighed heavily. He knew it was a mistake to leave Stiles alone. Who knew what he was up to now? But he'd been glad to clean up, so he just hoped Stiles hadn't done anything too crazy. Grabbing a towel from the rack, Derek wrapped it around his waist and stepped out into his bedroom to grab a change of clothes.

The sight and scent of Stiles stretched out half-naked on his bed assaulted his senses and he bit back a groan. Stiles's sleeping back was a long tempting line and Derek wanted to crawl across the bed and bite into the sweet curve of ass that peeked out just above Stiles's boxers. He wondered what Stiles would look like, waking up to Derek's mouth on him. Derek actually had to step back into the bathroom and close the door to stop himself from finding out. He leaned back against the closed door and shut his eyes, contemplating a second shower. This one cold.

You're being ridiculous, he told himself. He was an Alpha, for fuck's sake. He could walk past the sleeping teenager in his bed without molesting him. He had self-control. It just seemed to sort of falter around Stiles.

Taking a deep breath he steeled himself and walked out the door. He moved briskly, refusing to even let himself glance at the bed. He stepped up to his dresser and opened a drawer, pulling out a pair of pajama bottoms and a clean white shirt. He was halfway through tugging off his towel to change into them when Stiles shifted on the bed, nuzzling deeper into the pillow. Derek clutched the towel to his waist, grabbed the clothes, and fled.

Stiles moaned and arched up into Derek as the werewolf pressed a sucking kiss to his neck. Stiles was desperate for friction and he ground himself into Derek, panting and sweaty and so, so close to orgasm. His hands curled around Derek's hips and dug into his bare skin, pulling him closer, and Stiles could feel Derek grin wolfishly against the skin of his neck. Stiles threw his head back and gasped and without warning woke up because someone was pounding loudly on the door.

"Wake up, Stiles. I made coffee."

Stiles brain took a couple seconds to catch up. He was hopelessly twisted up in the sheets of Derek's bed and it looked like instead of grinding into a very naked and very willing Derek, he'd been humping the mattress. Stiles winced and slumped back down onto the pillow. Sweat was now drying coolly on his skin, but he was still painfully aroused.

"Uh, I'm just going to wash up first. Then I'll be right out," he called to Derek. Derek grunted in acknowledgement and Stiles heard him move away from the door.

Oh, god. He just realized Derek was a werewolf.

Okay, he knew Derek was a werewolf—but in this moment that fact was particularly relevant because being a werewolf meant you had werewolf hearing and werewolf hearing was excellent and so Derek, the werewolf, with his werewolf hearing, had probably heard Stiles attempting to sleep-fuck his bed. Oh, god.

Stiles buried his head under the blankets. He knew he'd have to get up in a second because he was gross and sweaty and probably smelled like sex. But he just needed a moment to lie there in mortification.

This was not a part of the newly formed Operation Seduce Derek, which really needed a cooler name when he had more time to think about it. He knew he'd need to be in control for any overt seducing, or at least seem like he was, because if he'd learned anything last night it was that Derek was terrified of 'taking advantage' of him. Stiles, of course, thought this was ridiculous, but whatever. So, when Stiles initiated said operation – which he had clearly failed to initiate last night when he fell asleep before Derek got out of the shower – he would have to make it very clear to Derek that he was sober and fully aware and purposeful in his actions.

This had been none of those things. It would just be one more reason for Derek to step back from Stiles and throw up another wall, and Stiles wasn't going to let that happen. He had to clean up and try to gain back whatever ground he'd just lost.

Thus resolved, he climbed out of the sinfully comfortable bed and padded barefoot into the bathroom.

Derek heard the bathroom door close and let out a sigh of relief. He'd woken up to the sound of Stiles twisting and turning restlessly in the other room. He'd been about to dismiss it and go back to sleep when Stiles had given a needy whine and then said Derek's name in a strangled voice. Derek had buried his head in his hands and tried to tune out the sounds. Which had proved to be impossible, because Stiles was a moaner.

Derek got up and moved into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of orange juice to try and focus on something other than what was going on in his bedroom. On his bed. With Stiles and a dream version of himself. Derek fought a rising tide of jealousy—which was stupid, because who got jealous of themselves? Gritting his teeth, he began to grind some coffee beans in order to keep his hands busy. Surely this would be over in a second or two.

Five minutes later, hands clenched into white knuckled fists, Derek stalked over to his bedroom door and hammered on it. Any longer having to listen to Stiles get it on with Dream Derek and he was going to barge into the room and show Stiles exactly how much better the real thing was. But since Derek couldn't do that, he needed to make it stop.

He poured some cream into his coffee and sat down at the island, willing his tense muscles to relax. He would get some caffeine into Stiles and then he could take him home.

"Boy, you look grumpy," Stiles remarked as he emerged from the bedroom and slid into a stool beside Derek. "Rough night?"

Derek scowled. "It was fine." Stiles hadn't bothered to put on a shirt, just pulled his jeans up over his boxers. Derek was studiously avoiding looking at the thin line of hair that led down Stiles's stomach. Derek had expected that Stiles would pick up some of his scent after spending the night in his bed and that, combined with the smell of Stiles's arousal, had Derek's hackles rising. Stiles smelled like Derek had spent the night fucking him. Derek didn't want Stiles to smell like Derek had spent the night fucking him unless Derek had spent the night fucking him. Not that he was going to fuck him. His scowl deepened.

"You look exhausted. It was the glass, wasn't it? I told you, you should have slept with me."

Derek choked on his coffee.

"Just sayin'." Stiles grinned as Derek coughed. "I don't even have to be back home for a couple hours. We could fix that mistake."

Derek, now recovered, abruptly stood up from the island and busied himself by grabbing a mug for Stiles. "We are not having this conversation again."

"Why not?" Stiles leaned forward and co-opted Derek's mug, making a face as he tasted the coffee and realized there was no sugar. Focusing back on Derek, he continued, "Your problem was that I was drunk. I'm not drunk now. I am one hundred percent sober."

Derek turned to face Stiles and leaned back against the counter, considering his options. When he came to a decision he placed the empty mug down. This wasn't going to be pretty, or pleasant, but he couldn't think of anything else that would work. "Okay."

"Okay?" Stiles repeated, uncertain.

"Okay. You made a good case for yourself. You want to fuck, so let's do it."

Stiles swallowed, and shifted uncomfortably in his stool. "I—"

"I could use a quick lay." Derek pushed off the counter and moved until he was standing in front of Stiles, who had swung his stool around so he was facing Derek, his back to the island. Stiles no longer looked so cocky.

Derek placed his hands on the counter on either side of Stiles, caging him in. He could hear Stiles's pulse race and his breath came shallow. Derek stepped closer, invading Stiles's space. "That's what you want, right?"

"I—I don't—" Stiles stammered, eyes darting wildly. He wasn't sure what was going on. His heart pounded in his chest and it was hard to breathe. He didn't like where this was going. He wanted Derek, but… this felt more like a threat than a proposition.

"Come on," Derek moved one of his hands to grip the bare flesh of Stiles's hip, his thumb stroking possessively over Stiles's skin. "You begged me for it all night. You think I didn't hear you this morning? Moaning my name, so desperate you practically fucked a hole in my mattress."

Stiles's mouth was so dry he couldn't swallow. He wasn't sure how to function with this combination of blinding arousal and an equal amount of panicked trepidation. He didn't know whether he wanted to bolt out the door and never come back, or drop to his knees and beg for Derek's cock.

Derek hadn't anticipated the effect this tactic would have on _him_. Stiles's eyes were wide with fear and that said prey, but the colour high on his cheeks said it wasn't only fear he was feeling. A thrill of excitement ran through Derek's body, the kind he'd only ever felt when hunting. He wanted Stiles to run. Wanted Stiles to run so he could chase him, and once he'd caught Stiles he would fuck him against whatever hard surface he could find so that Stiles understood that this wasn't a game. Whatever good intentions he'd had when he started out with this had fled.

"The bedroom's right there," Derek jerked his head back in the direction of it. "Let's go. If you haven't changed your mind." _Run_.

Stiles couldn't move. For maybe the first time in his life his brain had ceased to function and he felt as though he were standing at the edge of a precipice with nowhere to go but down. He licked his dry lips and watched as Derek's eyes tracked the movement. Stiles had wanted Derek plenty over the last handful of weeks, but he had never wanted Derek as much as he wanted him right now. He felt a blazing wildness rise up in his chest and, knowing he wouldn't make it far; he shoved Derek back and ran for the front door.

Derek bared his teeth in a snarl and hurtled after Stiles.

Stiles made it halfway out the door before a hand grabbed his bicep in an iron grip. He was thrown off balance, the hand not coming from behind him like he'd expected, but from someone standing just in front of the doorway on the small landing of the stairs. He was jerked to a stop, and the adrenaline running through his veins had him fighting viciously against whoever held him. A second hand came up to fist in his hair and yank his head back, the sharp pain in his head and neck making Stiles freeze.

"Good morning, Derek," Peter said pleasantly as he forced Stiles to turn back and face Derek, whose eyes had turned a bright, burning scarlet. "Now, didn't I ever tell you not to play with your food?"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Derek smelled Peter a split second before Stiles swung the door open. The moment Peter laid hands on Stiles, Derek saw the world flash red and he knew his eyes followed. He could see Peter's hand tighten in Stiles's hair and the boy made a soft noise of pain, though his eyes stayed glazed, pupils blown wide with desire.

"Well, _that's _interesting." Peter's nostrils flared and he brought his face down to sniff at the exposed line of Stiles's neck, where Derek could see his pulse beating wildly against his skin. "Did you know your boy liked it rough?"

"Let him go." Derek's voice was a low growl of warning, his hands flexing at his sides as his fingers shifted into long, deadly claws. No one touched Stiles like that, no one but him. He took a step forward, a vicious, animal part of his brain urging him to tear Stiles out of Peter's hands and rip Peter to shreds for daring to touch something that belonged to his Alpha.

Peter smirked; clearly more amused than frightened by Derek's reaction. He gave Stiles a push forward that had him stumbling towards Derek, breath catching in his throat as he saw Derek's clawed hands. Stiles swallowed around a dry throat, still unable to think clearly as the adrenaline rushed through his body.

"Stiles," Derek said, not taking his still-red eyes off Peter, "I think it's time for you to go home."

"Uh, yeah. Okay." Stiles glanced between the two werewolves, neither of whom appeared to be paying the slightest attention to him. He could feel the tension in the air and, though Peter had yet to do anything wolf-ish, Stiles hadn't missed how he'd casually shifted into a fighting position. Stiles took a deep breath to clear his head and walked into Derek's room to pick up his t-shirt from the floor and pull it on. Coming back into the main room, Stiles moved as quickly as possible, brushing past Derek and Peter and forcing himself not to run once he hit the stairs.

Neither Derek nor Peter moved until they'd heard the large sliding door close and the elevator start.

"What do you want, Peter?" Derek's claws were slowly melting back into fingers.

Peter moved further into the room, stepping around Derek to make his way into the kitchen and help himself to a cup of coffee. He'd clearly interrupted something between Derek and the boy—the scent of their combined lust still hung heavy in the air. Peter was sorry he hadn't waited another fifteen minutes or so before coming over. Judging by Derek's worked up state and the boy's needy little breaths, he'd have been treated to quite a scene. It had been a long time since Peter had seen his nephew lose control like that. He was going to be very interested in how this played out.

Taking a seat at the table, Peter gestured for Derek to do the same. Derek's eyes had faded back to their regular green but they gave a quick flash of irritation at being invited to sit down in his own home. Nevertheless, he complied and sat down across from Peter, crossing his arms expectantly over his chest.

"I looked into what you texted me about last night—the wolf with the reaction to the GHB." He took a sip of his coffee, idly wishing it were hotter.

"And," Derek prompted impatiently.

"And," Peter continued after a pause, "that's not the first time it's happened."

Derek's brow furrowed. "I haven't heard of any other instances."

"That's because the first two involved omegas. The only reason this one got so much attention is because she was with a pack."

"Fuck." Derek reached absently for his own mug of coffee and took a quick swallow, grimacing at the taste of cold coffee. "What happened?"

"I can't say for sure. One was killed at the scene and the other was wounded, but escaped. Both were in public places and both lost control and shifted. The first wolf was at some biker bar and, the instant she attacked someone, they all went after her. Her head was blown off by a shotgun. There was only one other casualty."

Derek shook his head in disbelief. They had been lucky, then. There weren't too many ways to kill a werewolf, but beheading was one of them. He was grateful that only one human had been killed. "What about the second time?"

Peter stood up and went to place his mug in the microwave. Lukewarm coffee was disgusting. He set the timer for a minute and then turned back to Derek. "It was at a concert. Three casualties. Security called the cops and they showed up within minutes. The wolf was shot several times but fled the scene. The cops assume that he was on some kind of drug—and none of the witnesses were exactly sober either, so there's no APB out on a wolfman."

"Lucky us." Derek rubbed a hand over his face. He was exhausted. He did not want to have to deal with something of this magnitude after getting so little sleep the night before. "So we're looking at a pattern, then?"

For the first time since he arrived at Derek's place, Peter looked grim. "It looks like someone is trying to out us."

"When did the first two events occur?" He was going to have to discuss this with the Alphas of the other packs in California, to try and figure out what course of action to take. It was always possible that the first incident had been an accident, and maybe even the second, but a third one made that seem unlikely.

"The first was in March, the second in July. And the third, as you know, the night before last." Peter didn't need to watch as much CSI as he did to know that the perpetrator was escalating.

"It's been the same drug—GHB—each time?"

"Yes, as far as I can tell." Peter shrugged. "There's not much to go on, but all three lost control in public and attacked whoever was closest."

"Okay," Derek sighed. "Thank you for your help on this."

"Anything for my Alpha." Peter gave an exaggerated bow before dumping the rest of his coffee in the sink. "I'll keep my eye out for anything else similar to this," he added as he made his way towards the door. No matter what he might think about Derek's status as Alpha now, this was a problem that had the potential to cause a lot of issues for werewolves in general. Until it was resolved he'd have to keep the rest of his plans under wraps.

"By the way," he paused in the doorway, "You should really get more sleep. You look like shit." With a smirk, he closed the door behind him and headed down the stairs.

Derek was in desperate need of a nap, but he glanced towards the door of his bedroom with no small amount of trepidation. He'd have to wash the bed sheets before he would be able to. There was no way he'd have anything resembling a restful sleep in the bed Stiles had spent all night in. He got up from the island and put both his and Peter's cups in the dishwasher. He was going to run a load of laundry and pack, as he'd have to leave today if he wanted to speak to all the other Alphas before the end of the week. And then, god willing, he would get a couple hours of sleep before he had to hit the road.

Stiles pulled up outside Scott's house in his battered old jeep. As was tradition, he was here to pick Scott up for the first day of the school year. He was glad it fell on a Thursday, and for the first time in his life he actually wanted to go back. After Tuesday night, and then the… events… of Wednesday morning, Stiles was in dire need of something to distract him from thoughts of Derek.

As Scott came out the door, his mom appeared in the doorway behind him, waggling a lunch bag that Scott appeared to have forgotten. Scott took it from her and gave her a quick peck on the cheek and, as he made his way towards the car, Stiles gave his mom an enthusiastic wave. She returned it with amusement before heading back inside and closing the door.

"God, you're such a kiss ass," Scott bitched as he tossed his backpack in the backseat.

"Whatever, I like your mom." Stiles waited till Scott put on his seatbelt before pulling away from the curb. "Do you think if I asked nicely she'd make me lunch too?"

"Make your own lunch." Scott leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. "Oh hey, did your dad totally freak out when you came home drunk?"

"When I came home drunk?" Stiles was confused. He hadn't done that.

"On Tuesday. Derek said he'd take you home. So did your dad, like, lose his shit?"

Right. Tuesday. When Derek took him straight home and absolutely did not bring him back to his very nice loft and engage in some incredibly hot foreplay that had left Stiles more sexually frustrated than he'd ever been in his life.

"Ah… no, it was fine," he said, vaguely. "He was passed out on the couch by the time I got home, so he didn't even notice."

"Really?" Scott winced in sympathy. "I didn't realize he'd started drinking so much on weeknights."

Stiles focused on the road in front of him, feeling like a piece of shit. He never lied to Scott. He didn't want to and, in fact, he'd love to pull over and tell Scott everything and grill him about what might be going through Derek's mind. But Stiles wasn't sure what _he_ thought about what happened on Wednesday morning—assuming he could keep his hand off his dick once he started thinking about it, which he hadn't been able to do so far in the twenty four hours since—and so he didn't want to talk about it.

Plus, he reasoned, Scott had lied to him about something like this before. Scott had totally made out with Lydia and hadn't told Stiles. That was actually worse than this, because Scott had known how Stiles felt about Lydia. So really, he was way less of a douche than Scott.

Stiles felt better.

"Hey, are you okay?" Scott looked worried and Stiles realized that he'd been quiet for a couple minutes.

"Oh, yeah, sorry." Stiles pulled into the parking lot of the school. "I'm just kind of worried about him, you know?" Which wasn't really a lie. He was worried. He just wasn't that worried about his dad's drinking right now, is all.

"It'll be okay," Scott gave him an encouraging smile and grabbed their backpacks out of the backseat, tossing Stiles his.

"Thanks," Stiles pushed open the door and got out of the car, locking it once Scott was out the other side. "Alright, let's go get the quality education our parents' tax dollars pay for."

Scott snorted and followed Stiles into the school.

Allison gave a startled yelp as Scott grabbed her arm and dragged her into an empty classroom as the lunch bell rang. "Scott!" She hissed, "What are you doing?" She'd known their breakup had been hard on him, but she didn't expect this kind of behaviour.

"Sorry." Scott stepped back, releasing her. "I want to talk about Stiles."

"About Stiles?" Her eyebrows raised. "What's wrong with Stiles?"

"He lied to me this morning. Right to my face!" Scott was indignant and he began to pace. "I think something's going on."

"Something bad?" Allison felt guilty for thinking that Scott wanted to talk about them, when he was so clearly worried by whatever was going on with Stiles.

"Yes. No. I don't know." Scott was frowning and he looked more than a little uncomfortable. "I think you and Lydia should go talk to him."

"If he lied to you, why do you think he'd tell us the truth?" Now she was concerned.

Scott visibly squirmed. "You know that thing I told you, like a month ago? About how I think Stiles—" he broke off, a pained expression on his face.

"How you think Stiles likes Derek?" Was this seriously what this conversation was about? Allison rolled her eyes. Why did boys always make everything so dramatic?

"Yeah, that." Scott looked relieved that he didn't have to say it. "Anyway, Stiles lied about going home after the bar on Tuesday. I think something happened. With him and Derek," he clarified, needlessly.

"Uh-huh. And you want Lydia and me to talk to Stiles about this, why?" She was beginning to frown. "Do you have a problem with Stiles liking guys?"

"What? No! I don't care if he's into dick now." Scott looked annoyed, what kind of small-minded person did Allison think he was? "I just—why can't he be into a nice guy? Like Danny. Danny's a great guy. I would one hundred percent support that relationship."

"What's wrong with Derek?"

Scott stared at her like she'd sprouted an extra set of eyeballs. "What's… what's wrong with _Derek_? Seriously?" He sputtered.

Allison shrugged, amused. "I guess he's a bit older, but so what?"

"Allison," Scott spoke patiently, like he was speaking to a three year old, "Derek is a werewolf."

"Scott," Allison said just as patronizingly. "You're a werewolf."

"I know that." He glared, irritated. "But Derek's an _asshole_ and he's a werewolf. Stiles already has too much shit going on in his life. He doesn't need Derek making things worse."

"Because you already do enough of that?" As soon as she'd said it, Allison wished she could take it back. Scott flinched and took a step back from her.

"I know it's my fault that he's mixed up in all of this supernatural crap, but that's my point." Scott sighed. "He doesn't need any more to deal with. And Derek just, like, attracts bad shit." Plus, he still thought Derek was way too old for Stiles. It was creepy.

"Stiles is smart, if something is going on with him and Derek, he knows what he's getting into."

"Does he?" Scott met her eyes, searching. "You thought you knew what you were getting into with me and look how that turned out." He couldn't help the slight bitterness in his voice.

Allison gave a sad smile. "That was different. Plus, my family was already tangled up in things. I would have gotten involved eventually—that's not on you. And," she continued before Scott could protest, "Stiles is already a part of all this weirdness. You need to trust him to make his own choices."

"Still," Scott wasn't going to just let this go and hope for the best, "Can you guys please talk to him? If he isn't okay talking about this with me, maybe he'll talk to you."

"Okay, I'll ask Lydia." She wasn't sure if it would do any good, but at least Scott might stop worrying so much. She actually thought Stiles and Derek would make a good couple. They'd probably balance each other out a bit, and that was something they both needed.

As Stiles stopped at Scott's house at the end of the day to drop him off, he couldn't help the nervous drumming of his fingers on the steering wheel. Scott unbuckled his seatbelt and then reached behind him to grab his bag. Stiles opened his mouth, and then shut it. And then opened it again as Scott got out of the car.

"Hey, have you heard from Derek since Tuesday?" He blurted, not meeting Scott's eyes.

"Yeah, why?" Scott's eyes narrowed, but he figured if Stiles wanted to pretend like nothing was going on, he'd play along. For now.

"No reason. Just wondering." Stiles gave what he hoped was a disinterested shrug. Scott nodded and closed the door, heading towards his house. "Okay, but—" Stiles shouted out the window. Scott turned around expectantly.

"That whole thing. With the, uh, GHB. That sounded serious. I just want to know if I need to be worried about you." Stiles was allowed to be worried about his friend. That's all this was about. It's not like he cared that he hadn't heard from Derek since he ran out of his place yesterday. It's not like Derek owed him anything. It's not like there was anything the two of them needed to discuss. Stiles was just concerned about Scott, like any best friend would be.

"He texted me on Wednesday, said he'd be out of town for a couple days." Scott shrugged and turned back to his house, calling over his shoulder, "Nothing to worry about."

"Yeah, no, that's—I'm not worried!" Stiles yelled after Scott. As soon as his friend had disappeared into his house Stiles slumped over, resting his forehead on the steering wheel. God, that had been embarrassing. He was surprised Scott hadn't seen right through him.

He needed to pull himself together before this got out of hand. So what if Derek had texted Scott and not Stiles. It's not like Stiles cared if he was out of town, doing whatever dumb werewolf things he did. Taking a deep breath he straightened up and headed to his house. He'd have dinner with his dad and then play video games till he passed out. He had lots of other things to do that didn't involve wondering why Derek Hale wasn't texting him.

Only, when Stiles got home, there was a note from his dad on the table saying that he'd be working late and that there was a frozen pizza in the freezer for Stiles. He stared bleakly at the note. He'd had frozen pizza for dinner all last week. He didn't want to eat another frozen pizza in front of the TV. He wanted to have a nice, sit-down meal with his dad.

He could call Scott and probably get himself invited over there for dinner, but Stiles felt bad enough about lying to him that he didn't want to have to do it any more than necessary. Stiles crumpled up the note from the table and tossed it into the garbage before grabbing a cold coke from the fridge. He actually wished he had homework or something to do instead of spending the evening bumming uselessly around the house.

Three cans of coke and two episodes of _Battlestar Galactica_ later, Stiles stood in front of the open freezer door, staring at the unappetizing box of pizza that probably contained more cardboard in the actual pizza than there was in the box. He really, really did not want to eat it but his stomach was growling loudly and, just as much as he didn't want to eat the pizza, he didn't want to have to run to the grocery store. If he did that, Stiles would have to put on actual pants instead of wandering around in his boxers and a t-shirt, and he had no intentions of doing that.

Stiles closed the freezer door and opened the cupboard. Maybe he could cook something. It couldn't be that hard. His dad cooked stuff all the time. And Derek, Derek had cooked the other night. If Derek could do it, Stiles was sure he could as well. Not that he cared what Derek could or could not do.

Stiles groaned and ran a hand through his hair. He needed to stop. It was bad enough lying to Scott—did he really need to lie to himself as well? It was hardly like he was saving face.

He, Stiles Stilinski, had a Thing for Derek Hale. And, if he was going to continue on this bout of honesty, he'd had a Thing for Derek for a while. He wasn't sure why or how it had changed, but Psycho-Probably-A-Murderer-Derek had turned into Oh-My-God-He's-So-Annoying-Derek and then somewhere along the way he'd become Hot-As-Fuck-Derek, and it was all Stiles could do to keep his hands to himself around him.

It was worse now, now that he knew Derek had his own Thing for Stiles. The whole mess had seemed so easy and so simple on Tuesday night, with the alcohol thrumming through his veins and making everything crystal clear. He wanted Derek, Derek wanted him. How could anything complicate that?

Pretty easily, it turned out.

Stiles pulled a carton of pasta out of the cupboard and filled a pot with water, setting it on the stove to boil. He'd add the jar of pasta sauce he'd seen on the shelf above and have a meal that wasn't frozen pizza. At least then he could feel accomplished about something. Even he couldn't screw up pasta.

While he watched the pot, Stiles's mind went back over what had happened on Wednesday morning. He'd woken up still feeing a bit drunk and giddy from the night before. He was convinced that he'd be able to wear down Derek's silly protestations and in no time at all he'd get to have his lips and hands back on Derek. Only that hadn't happened.

Stiles was pretty sure that Derek had just been trying to scare him and it had nearly worked, because the casual, almost cruel way that Derek was speaking to him had Stiles second-guessing everything he thought he knew about Derek. Except that as soon as Derek's arms had caged him in and Derek's breath was hot against his lips, the things he'd been saying started to make Stiles hot all over, and not only with embarrassment. He could tell that part way through his act Derek had stopped pretending and his intent had become real. This maybe should have scared Stiles more, and it did… but the thrill of fear he'd felt when looking into Derek's eyes and knowing without a doubt that Derek would pin him to the floor and fuck him until he was screaming had only made Stiles want it more than he'd wanted anything in his life.

Stiles wasn't sure what Derek wanted, though. Was Derek, like he'd said, just looking for sex? Would Stiles have just been an easy fuck if Peter hadn't interrupted?

His water was boiling and so Stiles dumped some pasta into it before sitting back down at the kitchen table to wait for it to cook.

If all Derek wanted was sex, Stiles wasn't sure how he felt about it. Would that be so bad? Just having sex with Derek? The sex would probably be amazing, if Wednesday was any indication.

But how real had Wednesday been? Stiles was mostly certain Derek had been just as into it as Stiles had been. Like, fairly certain anyway. Well, he thought he was pretty sure that maybe Derek had been into it…. What if he hadn't been into it though? What if the whole thing _was _really about scaring Stiles off and Stiles was some sort of freak who'd gotten off on it? Maybe Derek thought Stiles was a total perv now.

But, then again, Derek had kissed him back on Tuesday.

Or, his mind insisted, Derek had humored a horny drunk teenager because that was easier than dealing with a sulky drunk teenager. Because Derek had kissed him back, but he'd also turned him down immediately after. Maybe he'd made Derek so uncomfortable on Wednesday morning, so cocky and sure that Derek wanted him, Derek had felt he'd had no other choice than to try and scare him away so he didn't have to deal with Stiles's horny teenage bullshit when he clearly had his own problems.

Oh, god. Stiles dropped his forehead to the table, mortified. What if he'd spent the last couple days in a state of near-constant arousal thinking about Wednesday morning and the feeling of Derek's fingers against his bare skin and his body hot and hard against Stiles's, and it had just been Derek trying to brush him off?

A sharp hissing noise jerked him out of his self-pity and he suddenly realized he could smell burning. Shit. The pot on the stove was bubbling over, and he reacted on instinct, leaping up to pull the pot off the burner—and scalding his hand in the process.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" He swore, dumping the entire thing into the sink and then sticking his hand under the facet to run it under cold water. Belatedly he realized that the burner was still on, and that was where the horrible charred smell was coming from. Dashing back across the kitchen, he turned it off and then had to run back to the sink to turn off the tap as the pasta had clogged the drain and the sink looked about to overflow.

With a groan he sank back into his seat at the kitchen table. His hand hurt. He was starving. He'd humiliated himself in front of Derek, who must now think that Stiles was some sort of sex freak. This was the worst day ever.

Reluctantly he got up and set the oven up to preheat for the frozen pizza. He'd eat the whole damned thing and the play video games until his eyes fell out or he fell asleep, whichever came first.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

By the time Derek got back to Beacon Hills it was nearly 2am on Monday morning. He made his way wearily up the stairs and opened the door to his loft, tossing his duffle bag carelessly to the side and stumbling straight into his bedroom. His shirt was torn in several places and there was dried blood tacky against the side of his face. He didn't bother to wash it off or undress before falling bonelessly into his bed.

As exhausted as he felt, he knew it would take a while before his mind could wind down enough for him to sleep. He'd known it wouldn't be easy to enter other packs's territories as an Alpha and to try to convince them that he wasn't there to challenge them, but to warn them about a serious threat. What he hadn't realized was how much posturing there would be and that in several packs he'd had to fight some of the Betas to prove himself before he could even have an 'audience' with their Alpha.

All in all, it had been a frustrating and futile weekend. He wasn't sure how many of the other Alphas took him seriously. Most of them seemed more concerned with proving they were bigger and badder than Derek than with listening to what he had to say.

Derek took a deep breath to try to relax and discovered that, despite having washed the bed sheets, Stiles's spicy cinnamon-sweet scent still lingered on his pillow. He sighed. Apparently there was nothing he could do to escape the kid. It was bad enough that he'd spent half the weekend checking his phone for a text. Stiles never shut up when you wanted him to, and now, as soon as Derek wanted some sort of indication that he was okay, he got nothing. Derek wished fervently that he could get Stiles out of his mind. That he could stop thinking of how Stiles's pulse had beat like a wild thing just under the skin of his neck when Derek had pressed him back against the island, and how he wanted nothing more than to bite down over it and feel it throbbing against his tongue.

He wanted to know how Stiles was doing, wanted to make sure that Stiles was okay after what Derek had done on Wednesday, wanted to make sure that even though his body had reacted his head was on board as well.

Derek gave an annoyed growl and shoved the pillow off the bed. This was the fifth night since Wednesday he'd lain awake thinking about Stiles. He was getting new pillows first thing tomorrow.

After spending the entire weekend stuck at home, grounded from the TV, his Xbox, his phone, and Scott, Stiles had been pitifully glad to be going back to school on Monday. He really should have cleaned up the mess in the kitchen before going to bed on Thursday, he knew that, but he thought that grounding him for the _whole_ weekend was a major overreaction on his dad's part. Stiles had cleaned it up once he got home from school on Friday, though by that point it had been pretty disgusting, with the sink full of smelly half-dissolved pasta that had gummed itself to any available surface.

Stuck at home, he'd spent the weekend going through various emotional extremes, from obsessively re-organizing his DVDs no less than three times (alphabetically, by release date, and finally alphabetically by genre), to lying, apathetic, on his bed for what felt like hours on end, to replaying every interaction he'd ever had with Derek over in his brain to try and figure out what the hell was going on. When his dad finally gave his phone back and there was no new text from Derek on it he had to resist the urge to hurl it against the wall, knowing that breaking his phone would only lead to him being grounded again.

He'd thought being back in school and having his friends around would be enough to distract him from thinking about Derek. He'd been wrong. He had been completely unable to focus in any of his classes and Scott had gotten so tired of trying to hold a conversation with him that he'd given up entirely, saying he'd see Stiles at lacrosse practice that afternoon and that he'd better be able to pay attention to that or Coach would make him run laps.

So now Stiles was in the library on his free period at the end of the day. It would have been amazing to leave school early on Mondays, but unfortunately lacrosse practice fell on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays this semester, so Stiles had to stick around. He was staring moodily at his biology textbook, completely unwilling to open it and read the chapter he was supposed to have already read this weekend, when Lydia dropped her books down on his table and made him jump a foot in the air.

"Jesus," he scowled at her. "Warn a person before you do that."

"Looks like we have the same free period this semester," she smiled sunnily at him. "So tell me about the sex you had with Derek."

"I—what—no. I did not. I absolutely did not have sex with Derek. Who told you I had sex with Derek?" Stiles spluttered, completely thrown.

"Scott told Allison you did." She leaned in. "So how was it?"

"I didn't have sex with Derek!"

The librarian glared at Stiles. He shrunk back in his seat, and hissed "I did not have sex with Derek!"

"Well, apparently Derek didn't take you home like he said he would last Tuesday, and Scott thinks you guys totally did it." Lydia smirked, leaning back in her chair and crossing one leg over the other. "So, if Derek didn't take you home, and you didn't have sex—"

"We didn't!"

"Then what did you do?"

Goddamnit. Stiles should have known Scott could tell when he was lying. But why would Scott let him get away with it? Probably because the whole thing made him awkward. Scott was such a douche. Stiles had to listen to all his whining about Allison, but as soon as Stiles had any kind of drama, Scott conveniently avoided the topic.

Stiles eyed Lydia. On one hand, he desperately wanted a second opinion on what had happened, but, on the other hand, he wasn't entirely sure if he could trust her. Plus, it was kind of weird to be telling his last crush about his new crush—if 'crush' could be used to describe his feelings about Derek. He had no idea how to describe his feelings about Derek. All he knew was that he had feelings. And they were about Derek. And Derek also maybe had feelings and they might be about Stiles. Though they could just be sex feelings. Or there might not be any feelings on Derek's end, and Stiles was also probably a pervert.

Yeah, he needed help. He gave a resigned sigh and leaned forward in his chair.

"So, I didn't go home on Tuesday night."

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Yes, Stiles, that has been established."

"Do you want to know what happened, or not?" He glared and she mimed zipping her mouth shut. "Okay then. I've kind of had a… thing… for Derek. I don't know when it happened but all of a sudden it was, like, whoa. And then he showed up on Tuesday and you guys left me there with him," he paused to scowl at her. "Anyway, I told my dad I'd be spending the night at Scott's and I couldn't go home because I was kind of drunk,"

"Really drunk," Lydia corrected.

"Whatever. I was drunk. So we went to Derek's place and he was cooking and there was wine—"

"He gave you _more_ alcohol?" This time the librarian whirled around to shush Lydia, and Lydia flashed an apologetic smile before focusing back on Stiles. "And since when do you drink wine?"

"Why does everyone get so hung up on that? I'm sophisticated. I like wine. Anyway so we had some wine and eggs—"

"Wine and _eggs_?" Lydia interrupted. "Sorry, not the point. Keep going."

He waited a beat to make sure she was done, and then Stiles told her everything. He told her about Derek breaking his wine glass, about kneeling between his legs and kissing him, and about Derek's sudden and unwanted bout of nobility.

"But he kissed me back, right," Stiles said, "And he was into it. Like, really into it." He grinned. "So the next morning I, um, well," he avoided Lydia's gaze. "I figured his problem the night before was just that I was drunk, you know? So since I was sober I sort of—propositioned him. I was teasing. Kind of." He swallowed, not sure how to explain the next part, but it was the part that he really needed help figuring out.

"So what happened?" Lydia leaned in close.

"It was weird. He said okay, but it was too easy, so I was like, wait, what is going on? And then he's like, 'Yeah, I could use a quick fuck, so sure, why not. The bedroom is right there.'" Stiles flushed a bright red and fixed his gaze firmly on the table in front of him. "And I was just sitting there like an idiot because I didn't think he'd actually go for it and then he was towering over me, saying stuff—" He broke off.

Lydia gestured impatiently for him to continue.

"Just stuff, okay. Hot stuff. Really, really hot stuff. But it was also kind of scary and intense and I'm pretty sure he that at first he just wanted to freak me out so I'd run off but then it was like he was totally into it and it was really fucking hot. I think if Peter hadn't interrupted us we'd have—" Well, he wasn't really sure what they would have done, but he'd bet it would have been amazing. Stiles sighed.

"So, what you're saying is he called your bluff, but you—predictably—froze up, and when he kept pushing it you got turned on?"

"I—yeah." Stiles kind of hoped the ground would just swallow him up right now. "Which is weird, right? He must think I'm a total freak show."

"But you think he was turned on too, right?"

"Yes. Maybe. I don't know." He squirmed. "Then Peter showed up and I left. And I haven't heard anything from him since.

"Okay," Lydia said, "for starters, you're not a freak. Some people are just into that kind of thing. From what you're telling me, it sounds like he was into it too." Lydia sincerely wished she could have been there to witness Wednesday morning. "Scott said Derek was out of town on some werewolf thing, so he hasn't been avoiding you on purpose."

"Yeah, but he didn't even text me." Stiles could hear the whine in his voice and inwardly cringed.

"Derek is probably just as confused as you are."

"I doubt that," Stiles muttered under his breath.

"He is," Lydia said firmly. "He has no way to know how you felt about the whole thing and I bet he thinks he took it too far and scared you off. Which I bet he is now regretting."

"Okay, but even if that's true—and I'm not saying it is—what do I do?"

"Ignore him."

"What?"

"Ignore him," Lydia repeated.

"Why?"

"How did he react when Peter interrupted you?"

"Uh," Stiles thought back. "He was mad. Really mad. He sort of wolfed out."

Lydia smirked, "I figured. He seems like the possessive type, which means the best thing you can do in this situation is ignore him. Trust me, it will drive him crazy."

"But I don't want to drive him crazy."

"Yes, you do." She hoped she'd get to be there when Derek finally snapped.

Stiles frowned, opening his mouth to ask another question when the bell rang and all around them people started gathering their things to head home. He stuffed his textbook in his backpack and got up. He had to go to his car to grab his lacrosse bag before practice.

Lydia followed, sliding her arm through his. "Come on, I'll walk you to your car." She fluttered her eyelashes up at him and he rolled his eyes with a grin.

"Thanks for listening," he said as they stepped out of the front doors.

"Oh, any time."

"You're going to tell Allison everything, aren't you?"

"You bet." She smirked and then suddenly stopped, tugging on his arm so that he followed suit.

"What?"

She nodded to the parking lot where Derek, wearing big dark sunglasses and his leather jacket, stood talking to Scott. Leaning up she whispered into his ear. "Ignore him." Then she gave him a bright smile and dashed back inside the building.

Stiles took a deep breath and headed towards his car, trying to look as nonchalant as possible.

Derek tensed as he saw Lydia whisper something into Stiles's ear before beaming at him and then hurrying back into the school. So while Derek had spent the last several days worrying about Stiles, Stiles had clearly had things other than Derek on his mind. A quick flash of anger had Derek's hands clenching at his sides, and it took a moment for him to bring his attention back to Scott.

"Sorry, what did you say?" Derek asked.

Scott sighed. "I asked what time you wanted us to come over tonight."

Stiles had made his way over to them, his eyes sharpening as he heard Scott repeat his question. "What's happening tonight?"

"Pack meeting." Derek fixed his gaze on Stiles. "I want you, Lydia, and Allison there as well."

Stiles's heart had begun to pound when he'd heard Derek say the words 'I want you' and he fought to keep his breathing even.

"You know," Scott interrupted loudly, "I still haven't joined your pack. So it's not really a pack meeting."

Derek turned his attention back to Scott. "Just be there at eight."

"Okay, we'll let Isaac and the girls know." Stiles, deliberately casual, looked at his phone to check the time. "We've got to go or we'll be late for practice."

Derek gave a curt nod and walked off in the direction of his car.

At five minutes after eight, Stiles was parked outside of Derek's warehouse. He'd actually been early and had to drive around the block a couple times so he wouldn't be the first one there. He'd spent the last five minutes sitting in his jeep staring at the clock on his dashboard and wondering how much trouble he would get into if he just turned around and drove home. The giant knot in the pit of his stomach from seeing Derek earlier that afternoon still hadn't gone away. If anything, Stiles thought it had gotten worse.

After lacrosse practice, he'd come home to shower and tried three different jean and t-shirt combinations before he'd decided what to wear. He'd been too nervous to eat dinner (leftover meatloaf) and had downed a coke instead, leaving him jittery and wired. The dashboard clock showed 8:06pm and finally Stiles made himself get out of the car and head in.

As the elevator pulled him up to Derek's floor, Stiles wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. His heart raced and he hated that Derek would hear it as soon as he walked into the room. The elevator ground to a halt and he took a deep breath before pulling the doors open and stepping through. The steel door to Derek's place stood open and with a quick prayer that he could follow Lydia's advice and ignore Derek as much as possible, Stiles stepped through.

"Stiles!" Lydia came out of nowhere and threw her arms around him in a hug. "We were waiting for you! I saved you a seat," she smiled brilliantly up at him. Without waiting for his response, she grabbed his hand and lead him to a section of the large room that now contained a set of living room furniture that looked second-hand. Stiles was glad he wouldn't be sitting on the floor, and was pathetically grateful that this meeting wasn't going to take place upstairs. If he'd had to sit on the couch where he'd kissed Derek, Stiles wasn't sure he'd have been able to stay.

Scott and Isaac and Allison were already there. They'd claimed the couch, with Scott and Isaac on either side of Allison. Derek sat alone in an armchair, arms crossed over his chest and thighs splayed open. Stiles swallowed and tried not to think about the last time he was between Derek's legs. Lydia pulled Stiles with her to a threadbare loveseat.

"You're late." Derek didn't bother to hide the anger in his voice as Stiles sat down on the loveseat and Lydia snuggled up beside him.

"Uh, yeah," Stiles had prepared a whole excuse to say but was distracted by Lydia pressing herself up against him. He shifted uncomfortably. "Sorry."

"Great," sarcasm dripped from Derek's tone before he brought his focus back to the group as a whole. "There's been more than one werewolf drugged with GHB over the past several months. We believe it's intentional."

"'We'?" Isaac asked.

"Me and Peter. He looked into it after I spoke to all of you last week."

"How?" Stiles knew he was supposed to be ignoring Derek, but he wanted to know how Peter had 'looked into it'. He didn't trust Peter as far as he could throw him. Which wasn't very far. "Did he google 'roofied werewolves' or something?"

Derek frowned. "No. That's not important, Stiles."

"I think it is." Lydia slipped her hand into Stiles's. "Stiles has a point. How do we know we can trust Peter?"

Derek's jaw tightened. "We can trust Peter."

"I don't trust Peter." Scott leaned forward. "For all we know, he's been the one drugging other werewolves."

"And why would he do that?" Derek growled in frustration. "If you," he looked at Stiles, his green eyes dark with anger, "had let me _finish_ I would have told you that whoever is doing this seems to want to reveal the existence of werewolves to the human population. Peter has no desire to see that happen, because that would cause us to be hunted by everyone, and not just kept in check by people like the Argents. Do you really think that the majority of humans would wait until a werewolf had killed a human before deciding we were dangerous and needed to be put down? Peter does not want to put our entire species at risk like that."

"Derek's right," Allison put in. "It would be stupid of him to do something that would put his own life on the line."

Scott looked like he wanted to argue, but Allison touched his thigh and he backed down.

"Two werewolves, other than the one I told you about, have, for no apparent reason, shifted in public places and attacked humans. This can't be coincidence—someone is actively trying to 'out' us." Derek glanced at Scott and Isaac. "This is serious. We can't risk having either of you losing control in public. That's why I've asked the three of you here," Derek looked to Allison, ignoring Stiles and Lydia on the loveseat. "I need there to be one of you with one of them at all times."

"The buddy system?" Isaac grinned at Allison. "Sounds good to me."

"It doesn't sound good to me," Lydia said bluntly. "What are we supposed to do if they're drugged? We can't do anything to stop them. Not unless Allison lends us some of her dad's guns, and I doubt you want us shooting Isaac or Scott."

"It's not a perfect plan," Derek conceded reluctantly, "but at least the three of you will notice if either of them start to change, and hopefully you can get them somewhere more secluded before they fully shift."

Derek didn't feel comfortable putting the three humans in so much danger, but what else was he supposed to do? Short of giving them shotguns full of wolfsbane like Lydia had suggested, the best Derek could come up with was at least having a minute or two of warning before all hell broke loose. As far as plans went, it was a shitty plan, but at least it was a plan.

"Special K," Stiles offered. Everyone turned to look at him. At their expectant silence he continued. "Ketamine. It's like a horse tranquilizer. We used it on Jackson when he was the Kanima, remember? Scott should be able to get some more from work. We can carry it in EpiPens or something. Deaton should be able to figure out how much will put a werewolf down for the count." He shrugged. "If we notice Scott or Isaac start to change we can just stick them and that should help counter the effects of the GHB."

There was a beat of silence. Derek gave Stiles a quiet, searching sort of look. Stiles met his gaze and felt surprisingly calm looking into Derek's soft green eyes. They'd figure this out. If someone was actively targeting werewolves, that was serious and intense and scary. But they'd figure it out and they'd get through it. He could feel the corners of his lips turn up in a gentle, rueful smile. He'd been an idiot, thinking Derek was purposefully ignoring him this week. Derek had been busy. Obviously he'd had way more on his mind than Stiles. And that was okay, because both of them cared about this odd little pack they'd created, and Stiles and Derek would have more than enough time to figure out what it was between them.

Lydia broke the silence with a loud squeal and leaned up to press her lips against Stiles's cheek in a wet kiss that left lip-gloss smeared against his skin. "You're so smart!" She crooned, wiping away the lip-gloss with her thumb.

Stiles blinked down at Lydia, confused and flattered. She was being awfully nice to him today. She must have felt that he needed some extra reassurance after he spilled his guts to her in the library earlier. When he looked back, Derek's eyes had darkened and he was no longer looking at Stiles, but had pulled out his phone and was sending a text. Stiles suddenly doubted the confidence he'd felt only seconds earlier. Uneasy, his hand tightened in Lydia's, and she squeezed back.

"Wait," Isaac spoke up. "If Peter was the one who looked into all of this—where were you all weekend?"

Derek slid his phone back into his pocket and looked up. "I went to the other packs here in California. I thought they'd need to know what was going on."

"You don't have an easier way to communicate with them?" Allison seemed genuinely curious.

Derek hesitated a second. He still didn't entirely trust Allison. He knew better than to judge someone by his or her family, but she was an Argent, and they'd done enough damage to the Hales.

"Derek?" Scott prodded.

"We have a message board," Derek answered, reluctantly.

"A what?" Stiles could barely contain his laughter. "Seriously? What is this, 1995?"

Derek glared. "It's effective, discrete, and can be updated by any wolf within the United States."

"Why didn't I know about it?" Scott sounded put out, and Isaac looked a little hurt himself.

"Because you're not eighteen." Derek held up a hand as Scott opened his mouth to protest. "Listen, that's just the way it is. It's a security issue. I'll get you an invitation to join when you turn eighteen."

"So why didn't you just post on the message board or whatever?" Stiles asked.

"Because," Derek sounded impatient. "I thought this was a serious enough issue that I wanted to meet with the other Alphas personally." Not that it had done any good, he added silently. "Peter went through a bunch of the site's archives and discovered two posts that indicated an incident like this had happened before. No one else seemed to have connected them to the most recent one because the earlier two werewolves who had been drugged were Omegas. They had no pack looking out for them." He glanced around the room, careful to make eye contact with everyone. "We need to be looking out for each other. Scott," he focused on the boy. "Please speak to Deaton tomorrow about the ketamine."

Scott nodded. He didn't think they'd have a problem getting any.

"Okay, if that's it?" Derek waited a minute, but no one spoke up. "Thank you for coming tonight." He stood, and Scott, Isaac, and Allison followed, the three of them making their way quickly out to door. Stiles made to get up but Lydia caught his arm.

"Can I get a ride home with you, Stiles?" She asked.

Stiles nodded, and they made to leave. Stiles managed to make it nearly to the door before a hand clamped down on his shoulder, fingers bruising against his skin. His mind blanked; empty save for a wild surge of need that left him breathless.

"Sorry Lydia, I need to have a word with Stiles." Derek tightened his grip and Stiles thought his knees might give out under him. "Can you catch up with Allison?"

"I guess," Lydia huffed. She fought to hide the pleased quirk of her lips. "I'll see you tomorrow, Stiles." She gave a coquettish wave and sauntered out the door.

As soon as the elevator doors closed behind her Derek released his grip on Stiles and strode towards the large door of the loft. He slammed it shut and slid the bolt home.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN:** Thank you guys so much for all of the reviews! It means a lot that you'll take the time to let me know what you think, and I hope you'll have a lot to say after this chapter...

Chapter Six

Stiles jumped at the sharp sound of the door slamming, and his heart gave a little stuttering leap as Derek locked it.

"Had a good weekend, did you?" Derek moved away from the door and circled around in font of Stiles.

"Um," Stiles wasn't sure what Derek was talking about. His weekend had been shitty because he'd been grounded the entire time. Which Derek would know if he'd bothered to text Stiles. Stiles felt a flicker of anger.

Derek took a slow, deliberate step towards Stiles. "It looks like Lydia enjoyed herself." Thinking of how she'd cuddled up to Stiles on the loveseat, _Derek's_ loveseat, made Derek's lips curl back into a sneer.

Stiles took a second to understand what Derek was saying. Was he really jealous? Of _Lydia_? Suddenly Lydia's actions that evening made sense, and Stiles gave a low groan. "Listen, it's not like—"

"Like what?" Derek took another careful step, closing the distance between them.

Stiles swallowed and stepped back, his shoulder blades brushing the cold metal of the door. "It's not like that."

"What's it like, then?" Derek placed a hand on Stiles's hip, thumb slipping under Stiles's t-shirt to brush lightly over Stiles's bare skin. "Is it like this?" He brought his lips down to press an open-mouthed kiss to Stiles's neck, tongue flicking out to taste salty skin. Stiles sucked in a breath, his head falling back against the door at the combined sensations of Derek's soft lips and the rasp of his stubble against Stiles's hypersensitive skin.

"No, it's—" Stiles broke off as Derek scraped his teeth lightly over Stiles's jaw. This gentleness was so different than what had happened the week before and Stiles felt thrown off, unnerved, because for all of Derek's delicate, careful touches and his quiet words, Stiles could swear there was a sharp edge of darkness to his actions. It was that unspoken threat that had Stiles's breath catching in his throat and had him hardening in his jeans. "Derek, what—"

"How about this?" Derek cut him off again, pressing closer so that Stiles was trapped against the door. With one hand still at Stiles's hip, he used the other to trail light fingers over the length of Stiles's cock through his jeans. Stiles tried to thrust into the contact but Derek's hand had already dropped away. He made an angry, frustrated sound and shoved Derek back.

He knew Derek let himself be pushed and that only made Stiles angrier. "It's not like that with Lydia and you know it," he snapped.

"No, it's not," Derek agreed. An arrogant smirk crossed his face and Stiles's eyes narrowed. Derek moved then, lightning quick, and suddenly his hand was wrapped around Stiles's throat and he was pressing Stiles into the door with the full weight of his body.

Derek could feel the rapid beat of Stiles's pulse under his fingers and he gave a low, pleased growl as he forced his leg in between Stiles's and found him rock hard. "It can't be like that with Lydia because it can't be like this," his fingers tightened as he pressed his thigh more firmly against Stiles who couldn't stop a needy whine from escaping. "Can it?" Derek met Stiles's eyes and noted with dark satisfaction that the boy's pupils were blown wide. "Can it?" He repeated himself when Stiles didn't answer.

"No," Stiles whispered. It felt like every nerve of his body was on fire, and that if Derek didn't keep touching him, didn't keep looking at him with his eyes dark and hungry, then Stiles might burn away to ash.

"Good." Derek leaned down and gave Stiles a bruising kiss, feeling a hot rush of pleasure at the way Stiles's lips parted readily under his. He licked into Stiles's mouth, tasting the sweetness of the coke he'd clearly had instead of dinner.

Stiles's hands came up to grasp Derek's hips and his fingers dug in with an edge of desperation. There wasn't enough room between Derek and the door for Stiles to move enough to get the friction he wanted. Derek's leg was warm and firm between his, but the angle was all wrong and Stiles whimpered—actually whimpered—into Derek's mouth.

Derek pulled back with a slow grin, his hand on Stiles's throat, keeping him pinned against the door. Stiles squirmed, flushing as Derek let his eyes run slowly over Stiles's body. Derek's hand around his neck was a steady pressure that wasn't enough to cut off his breathing, but served as a very real reminder to Stiles that he was completely at Derek's mercy. This probably should have made Stiles cold with fear, but, instead of panic, his veins surged with a reckless abandon that he had to fight in order to stand still and not drop to his knees in front of Derek and surrender completely.

Derek ran a thoughtful tongue over his teeth, considering Stiles. There was one obvious problem with this scenario—Stiles was wearing far too many clothes. Luckily for both of them, Derek had just the solution. His grin returned, wider than before and with a distinctly wolfish glint. His hand around Stiles's neck loosened slightly, and Stiles made as if to break free but Derek's eyes were suddenly, terrifyingly red. Stiles's heart stopped, real fright licking at the edges of his arousal.

The hand around Stiles's throat flexed as the bones in Derek's fingers shifted underneath his skin and where blunt fingertips had pressed into his neck there was now the delicate bite of claws that only just avoided drawing blood. Stiles stood rigid, unable to move for fear of those sharp points. He would have thought that this, the wicked sharpness of those claws so close to his jugular, would have been enough to snap him out of this thrall Derek had him under, but as strong as the urge to flee was, his need to stay was stronger.

The sharp sent of Stiles's unease had Derek pausing, ready to pull back if Stiles actually fought this, but the scent of his desire didn't abate. If anything, Derek would have sworn the heady perfume of it intensified.

"Uh, Derek?" Stiles finally found his voice, unable to help a slight quaver.

"Stiles." Derek's free hand came up to the neckline of Stiles's t-shirt and he carelessly sliced the thin fabric open to the hem, baring Stiles's pale skin. The rapid rise and fall of Stiles's chest with his breathing was much more interesting without his shirt in the way.

Stiles could feel Derek's hand around his throat return to its more human state, and he sagged back against the door in relief. He'd been eighty-five percent certain that Derek had been about to gut him, and ninety-eight percent certain that he wouldn't have done a thing to stop it. Much like his favourite literary heroine, he needed to sort out his priorities. That thought was stopped in its tracks as Derek's hand lifted from his throat to slide the remnants of his t-shirt off his arms and Stiles realized he was now shirtless.

Derek slid his hands around Stiles's waist, pulling him closer and bending his head to brush a chaste kiss over Stiles's lips. Stiles arched up into him, chasing Derek's mouth with his own until he could slide his own tongue against Derek's slightly parted lips. Derek gave a low purr of pleasure and bent his head to nip at the jut of Stiles's collarbone.

The feeling of teeth against his skin had Stiles's eyes rolling back in his head and it was only Derek's grip on his waist that kept Stiles standing. Derek smirked and nudged Stiles back so he was once again pressed against the solid steel door. The metal was cold against his skin and he could feel a bolt digging into his shoulder. The discomfort managed to clear Stiles's head long enough to realize that Derek had pushed him back so he'd have something to support him, because Derek was suddenly on his knees in front of Stiles.

With one hand splayed over Stiles's stomach to hold him in place, Derek rubbed his cheek over the front of Stiles's jeans, feeling the heat of Stiles's cock through the fabric. Stiles made a choked noise and Derek could see his hands pressed flat against the door behind him, as though Stiles couldn't bring himself to touch Derek, or didn't think he was allowed to. Derek buried his face in Stiles's crotch and inhaled, breathing in the scent of the precome that had begun to leak from his cock. Stiles's hips gave a quick, abortive jerk as he fought to remain still.

"Good boy," Derek murmured, pleased at how quickly Stiles caught on. He gave Stiles's erection one last, slow rub with his cheek before moving up to lick along Stiles's bare flesh above the waistband of his jeans. The thin line of hair that led into Stiles's jeans was coarse under his tongue and Derek resisted the urge to follow it all the way down, instead moving to Stiles's hip where he bit down, sucking a dark bruise into the delicate skin.

"Oh, fuck." Stiles's head fell back against the door, his fingers scrabbling against the smooth metal as he took a deep breath and tried not to come in his pants. The sight of Derek on his knees in front of him was almost too much for him to handle, and he had to slam his eyes shut and focus on his breathing.

Derek looked up the long line of Stiles's body and saw him fighting to stay in control. He closed his teeth harder over Stiles's hip and felt Stiles's stomach muscles quiver under his hand and his hips thrust with need under Derek's hold. Derek swirled his tongue over the bruised flesh and pulled back.

"Is this what you want?" He ran his free hand up the inside of Stiles's thigh, fingers sliding teasingly over Stiles's cock before moving higher to snap open the button on Stiles's jeans. Stiles swallowed and gave a rapid nod, his eyes still closed and breathing thready.

"Say it." Derek slowly pulled the zipper of Stiles's fly down, the rasp of it loud in the empty room.

"Yes." Stiles couldn't help the pleading note in his voice. He wasn't even sure that he was embarrassed by it.

"Beg me for it." Derek pushed Stiles's jeans down to his thighs, one hand still pressing Stiles firmly back against the door as the other returned to slide his boxers down and free his cock.

"Please." Stiles could feel Derek's breath hot against his dick and he thought he might die if he didn't feel Derek's lips on him. "Please, Derek, please," he begged, his voice ragged.

Derek leaned forward and licked a beaded drop of precome from the tip, the taste sharp in his mouth. Stiles moaned, and Derek opened his mouth and slid his lips over the head before swallowing Stiles down in one smooth motion. The sensation of being enveloped in the wet heat of Derek's mouth had Stiles gasping for breath. Derek's tongue ran over the underside of Stile's cock and he had to dig his fingers into Stiles's stomach and hip to keep Stiles from thrusting into him.

Next time, Derek would let Stiles fuck his mouth, but this time, this first time, Derek was in control.

The feeling of Derek's mouth working over and around him overwhelmed all of Stiles's other senses. He felt mindless and greedy and all he wanted was to drive himself over and over again into Derek until he came. The way Derek's hands held him still, preventing him from moving even an inch, made Stiles snarl in frustration. At the same time, the pressure of those fingers—surely leaving more bruises—felt like an anchor that kept Stiles form losing himself completely. Derek flexed his throat around Stiles, working to take him in deeper and fighting past his body's resistance. Stiles bit back a curse and lifted his head to look down at Derek. The werewolf rolled his eyes up to meet Stiles's gaze and the sight of Derek's spit-slick lips wrapped around Stiles's cock made Stiles groan, but it was Derek's green eyes, dark and smug with the knowledge that he had brought Stiles to the frantic, razor-edge of orgasm, that had Stiles's fingers clenched into white-knuckled fists. Stiles knew Derek could leave him there, maybe would leave him there, and the thought made him writhe desperately. "Derek, please. Please let me," he begged, too far gone to have any dignity left.

Derek's grip on him loosened and Stiles's hips moved before his brain could catch up, slamming himself as far into Derek as he could go and as his cock hit the back of Derek's throat he came with a sharp cry.

Derek swallowed as Stiles pulsed hot and bitter in his mouth. He eased back when Stiles grew soft, giving one last swipe of his tongue over the oversensitive head to make Stiles flinch back with a garbled protest, too spent to form words. He had to catch the boy as he slid down the door, lowering him carefully to the floor.

Stiles leaned his head back against the door and closed his eyes. Maybe he could just stay there for the rest of his life. Derek probably wouldn't mind too much. Stiles didn't think his legs would be able to function again any time soon, maybe never. The warm glow of orgasm left him feeling pliant and sated, skin flushed and chest still rising rapidly with his breathing.

Derek felt a sudden wrench of envy curl in his gut, looking at Stiles splayed out bonelessly against the door. He wanted to be the only one who had ever made Stiles look like this, the only person who could break Stiles down until he was pleading and frantic, and the only person who knew what Stiles looked like when he finally got his release. He crawled up between Stiles's legs, his hands on either side of Stiles's hips and devoured his mouth in a hot, savage kiss.

Derek tasted like Stiles's come and, as Derek pulled back, Stiles rolled the unfamiliar bitterness around with his tongue.

Derek couldn't help the vicious tide of anger that rose dangerously in his chest. Knowing he was making a mistake, but needing to hear that he was the first and only person to have Stiles like this, he spoke, damning himself. "Did you taste as good in Lydia's mouth?"

Whiskey-gold eyes met Derek's green ones and the rise and fall of Stiles's chest slowed. Derek expected a furious, sputtering denial, and then an argument. They would fight and Derek would apologize to Stiles through the hard press of hands on his body, the delicate balance of pleasure-pain, and the hot touch of lips against unexplored skin.

What he hadn't expected was the blank look in Stiles's eyes. The moment those words left Derek's mouth, Stiles simply shut down. Derek understood with swift horror that he'd miscalculated. He'd meant to hurt, and he _knew _Stiles, knew Stiles well enough to know that Stiles fought like a lion when backed into a corner. He'd been counting on it. He'd been prepared to block the blow he was sure would be coming his way, but Stiles wasn't throwing a punch. He wasn't shouting. Stiles didn't even look angry. He just looked… blank.

Derek pulled back and Stiles calmly got to his feet, pulling his boxers and pants back on. With an absent thought he picked up the torn remnants of his t-shirt from the floor. Derek could hear his pulse slow and steady.

"Stiles?" Derek asked hesitantly. Stiles looked at him and Derek lifted a hand to—to do what, he wasn't sure, and he dropped it uselessly back to his side. "Stiles, I—" he swallowed, feeling his own heart pound with the realization that he didn't know if he could fix this.

Stiles waited a beat and, when Derek said nothing more, he turned to the door, unlatched the bolt and slid it open. He didn't bother to wait for the elevator but made his way to the stairs and was gone.

Derek remained standing in the doorway. He could hear the calm, measured beats of Stiles's heart as he left the warehouse and walked to his jeep. Derek's muscles tensed. If Stiles waited, if Stiles stopped with even half a second's indecision, Derek would go after him. But Stiles didn't even hesitate. Derek heard the car door open and shut, the low rumble of the motor starting, and then the jeep pulled away.

Derek stood bleakly in the doorway for a full minute before he moved on autopilot to pull the door shut. He should have gone after Stiles. Even though he didn't pause, though he didn't wait. Because Derek had put that terrifyingly empty look in Stiles's eyes. Derek should have kept his mouth shut, should have dealt with his own issues. Or, if he couldn't do that, he should have had a fucking conversation for once.

He could still taste Stiles in his mouth and felt sick to his stomach. There'd been such a pleased, sated look on Stiles's face—a look Derek had put there—but instead of leaving things like that, he had done what he'd always done. He'd pushed too far and too fast.

Despair hung heavy in his chest. Maybe it was for the best that he hadn't followed Stiles. If he left it here he'd cause no further pain. Stiles could hate him, get over him, and get on with his life.

Derek moved across the room and up the spiral staircase. Once in the kitchen, he bypassed the wine rack and went straight for the liquor cabinet. Grabbing an unopened bottle of whiskey he headed into the bedroom. He didn't bother with a glass.

He took a long swallow from the bottle before placing it on the bedside table. He hoped the whiskey would burn away Stiles's lingering taste.

Except that he still hadn't got new pillows. The cinnamon spice that said _Stiles_ echoed teasingly in the air. Rubbing his hands roughly over his face Derek sank to the edge of the bed. As much as he knew rationally that the best thing for Stiles would be if Derek walked away, he knew he couldn't do that. He'd fucked up massively and awfully and he would do whatever it took to make it up to Stiles. However long it took.

_If you can make it up to Stiles,_ a brutal part of his mind whispered. _If he can forgive you. _And then, _if he even wants to._

He took another drink and reached for his phone, scrolling through the contact list until he found Stiles's name. His thumb hovered above it. He brought the bottle back up to his lips and then, before he could hesitate—he'd done enough of that tonight—sent a text.

**Stiles we need to talk.**

He waited a long moment. Nothing. He checked the clock on the bedside table. Stiles had left fifteen minutes ago. If he'd gone straight home he'd be there already. Derek checked to make sure his phone was still on. It was. He scrolled back down his contact list and sent another text.

**Call me.**

He turned the sound all the way up on his phone. He didn't want to miss the call from Stiles.

Except that there was no call from Stiles.

Derek waited a full two hours, sitting on the edge of his bed and staring at the phone lying silent in his hands. The whiskey bottle on the bedside table was nearly empty, and he entertained the thought of driving to Stiles's house and shouting until Stiles came out to talk to him. Except Stiles's dad would probably pull out a shotgun and if the Sheriff shot Derek he'd realize what Derek was, and that would be bad.

Derek sent another text.

**Stiles?**


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: **I'm going on vacation next week (beaches and booze and bikinis!) and unfortunately will not have internet access, so tonight I'm going to post Chapter Seven and Chapter Eight. That means there won't be an update next week, but I'll be back with Chapter Nine on November 21st.

Chapter Seven

"Are you going to check that?" Scott asked as Stiles's phone buzzed for the third time that hour.

"Nope."

"Are you sure?"

"Yep." Stiles didn't even look away from the TV screen. They were sprawled over the couch in Stiles's living room playing _Mortal Kombat vs DC Universe_.

Scott frowned. Stiles had been ignoring his phone all day at school, and Scott wasn't an idiot. Lydia had told Allison what Stiles had told her about Derek, and Allison had told Scott and probably Isaac as well. Scott wasn't sure what he thought about that, but he definitely didn't want to think too hard about it. The point was that now Scott knew that Stiles and Derek had done… stuff.

He didn't really want to think about exactly what kind of stuff they did, because Stiles was his best friend and picturing that was just gross. Plus, Derek was, well, Derek. So, when Lydia had caught up with the rest of the group the other night, Scott knew that Stiles was probably staying back to do…stuff… with Derek. Which, whatever. If Stiles wanted to do stuff with Derek's stuff, Scott couldn't really say anything against it. He'd certainly enjoyed doing stuff with Allison.

Except that Stiles had been totally weird all day. He'd gotten about eighty bazillion texts and hadn't looked at any of them, but he hadn't turned his phone off either. It was as if he wanted to know there were texts, but didn't want to know what they said, which was _weird_.

Man, Scott really, really didn't want to talk about this. But he had to. For Stiles. Because Stiles was Being Weird (or Weirder, anyway).

On the screen in front of them Subzero blasted Batman, effectively containing him in solid ice and then jump kicked him. Effectively smashing him into tiny pieces.

Scott gave a huff of disgust and tossed his controller down on the couch. Stiles's phone buzzed again.

"Okay, this is stupid." Scott lunged across Stiles to grab for his phone, which sat on the arm of the couch. Stiles shoved him back. Scott pushed Stiles into the back of the couch and tried to crawl over him. Stiles gave a grunt as Scott's weigh landed on him and used all his strength to push Scott off the couch.

Scott hit the floor with a yelp of surprise but was up in an instant, grabbing at the phone before Stiles could get to it.

Stiles jumped up from the couch. "Dude! You can't use your werewolf superpowers like that!"

"Can too," Scott smirked and waved the phone teasingly in front of Stiles.

"Isn't there some kind of code where you can't use them for evil? You're being evil. This is evil."

"This isn't evil. This is good. I am using them for good. I'm basically Batman."

"Stealing is not good. And Batman doesn't even _have_ superpowers!" Stiles waggled his fingers. "Give me back my phone."

"Are you going to check your texts?"

Stiles looked mutinous. "They're my texts. I don't have to check them if I don't want to."

"Fine, then I will." Scott danced back as Stiles leapt at him. He scrolled quickly through Stiles's recent messages while dodging Stiles's frantic attempts to reclaim his phone. He did feel a bit bad about using the whole werewolf thing to his advantage, but it wasn't like Stiles would ever have won _before_ Scott was a werewolf, so, really, this just maintained the status quo and saved them both a lot of rug burn.

**You can't ignore me forever.**

**Can we just talk?**

**Stiles.**

**Where are you? I'll come to you.**

**STILES STOP IGNORING ME.**

Jesus. Derek sounded more than a little desperate. Scott never thought he'd witness that. He kind of wished he'd never had to. Taking pity on Stiles, who was panting and red in the face from his efforts, Scott tossed the phone back to him.

"Man, what did you do to Derek?"

"What did—" Stiles sputtered, indignant. "_I_ didn't do anything!"

"Then why is Derek acting like you stood him up for prom?"

Stiles gaped at Scott. "Why do you think I'm at fault here? I thought you didn't even _like_ Derek?"

"I don't," Scott frowned, kind of wondering that himself. "But, I mean…" _if anyone was going to screw things up…_ the sentence hung unfinished in the air.

"Great." Stiles flung himself back on the couch. "That's great. Thanks Scott. Thanks for your support."

Scott had the decency to look embarrassed. "Sorry."

"I don't fucking know what happened, okay? One moment we were—" He probably shouldn't tell Scott about the blowjob—the mindblowingly hot blowjob that would set the bar for every other blowjob Stiles would ever receive, not that it looked like he'd be receiving any for the next umpteen years of his life. "Well, we were—" he tried to continue.

"Yeah, please, please don't tell me what you were doing." Scott looked pained.

Thank god. "Okay so we were, uh, doing what we were doing," Stiles looked studiously at the carpet. "And then all of a sudden, like out of fucking nowhere," he clarified, "Derek hulks out into this controlling douchebag. Acting like he's got some _claim_ on me. Last week he couldn't give a shit, but then last night he's obsessed with whether or not I had sex with Lydia." And yeah, okay, Derek's initial jealousy had been hot. Like seriously, be-careful-you-don't-burn-yourself-hot. But he'd taken it too far, and there were lines you didn't cross. Derek had just waltzed right the fuck over those lines, and seemed surprised when Stiles didn't want to stick around to see if there was anything else Derek could make him feel like shit about.

Scott's eyes narrowed. "What'd he say to you?"

"It doesn't matter." It did, but there was no way Stiles would be repeating it. "I left."

"Good." Scott started to pace, his hands balling unconsciously into fists. "What the fuck is his problem? Like he can't tell he's the only one you want? Like you're not wearing a neon sign on your forehead that says 'I want Derek Hale'?"

"Hey, whoa, what are you talking about?"

"We can _smell _it, Stiles." As soon as he said it, Scott wished he hadn't. As if this couldn't get more uncomfortable for both of them. But he was too pissed at Derek to let the Alpha plead ignorance about Stiles's interest. "It's been obvious you were into him for like a month, at least. And like, really into him." Fucking Derek Hale. If Derek could just not be an asshole about everything, Scott wouldn't have had to be having this conversation and he wouldn't have had to feel like he was contributing to the look of stunned hurt that Stiles now wore.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Scott gave a helpless shrug. "I figured if you wanted me to know, you'd tell me. It didn't seem fair."

Stiles could see that. "Uh, thanks." But god, how awkward was that? So all the times they'd been in the same room as Derek and Stiles had been so sure he'd been cool as a cucumber while trying to not look as though he was imagining what Derek Hale's lips tasted like, not only had _Derek_ known, but Scott had known as well. And so had Isaac.

Stiles really had to stop hanging out with werewolves. A person needed his privacy.

"So what are you going to do?" Scott tried to get this conversation back on track; well aware of how embarrassing it was for both of them.

"I don't know," Stiles said, morosely.

"I could beat him up for you?" Scott looked cheerful at the suggestion. "Knock some sense into his stupid head?"

"No. Thanks, though." Stiles's phone buzzed again.

"You're planning on ignoring the problem until it goes away, aren't you?" Scott sounded resigned.

"Yep."

"You know that's never worked for you, right?"

Derek's texts had stopped after Tuesday. He'd called once on Wednesday but Stiles hadn't picked up, and Derek hadn't left a message. It was now Friday, and Stiles wasn't any more sure about how he felt. He was angry with Derek, angry that Derek had let his own idiotic issues ruin what had been Stiles's first real sexual encounter, and he was angry at himself for being so upset by what Derek had said. Stiles had pretty thick skin. It took a lot more than implying that he'd had a lot of sexual conquests to make Stiles feel like crap. And, really, if anyone else had accused Stiles of sleeping with Lydia, he would have been overjoyed. So why was he miserable?

Stiles stared unhappily at the rows of frozen dinner in the freezer aisle at the grocery store. His dad was working, again, and Stiles absolutely refused to eat another frozen pizza. There were no more leftovers, and he wouldn't try to cook for himself after the disaster _that_ had been the last time. This was going to be the lamest Friday night in the history of all Friday nights. Scott was working, so they couldn't hang out. Isaac and Allison were going to a movie tonight, and Lydia had a date. If Derek hadn't been such a complete and total ass on Monday, Stiles bet he could have also had a date.

He kicked sullenly at the freezer door. If Derek had just kept his stupid, overly possessive mouth shut, Stiles bet he could have talked his way over to Derek's place tonight. And then he could have talked his way into Derek's pants. God, he wanted into Derek's pants, but no, Derek's great big ego had cockblocked him. Well, that and Stiles's pride. He supposed if he had responded to one of Derek's text messages, he'd have an apology by now, but there was no way he was letting Derek say he was sorry over text message. And Derek hadn't even done that. Not one of his thirty or so texts had contained the words 'I'm sorry'. If Derek couldn't even do _that_, the odds of him ever doing it in person were nil, which meant that Stiles and his pride would be sleeping alone for the rest of their lives. There was no way he was letting Derek back in _his_ pants without an apology, no matter how much he might really, really want Derek back in his pants.

Which he did. A lot.

Stiles opened the freezer door and pulled out a Hungry Man dinner. He guessed it would have to do. At least it would be a change from frozen pizza, though he suspected that they were all made of the same cardboard and food colouring paste, rearranged into different shapes to resemble 'pizza' or 'mashed potatoes'.

"Tell me you're not actually going to eat that," Derek said disapprovingly from behind him. Stiles nearly smacked his face into the still-open door of the freezer in his haste to turn around.

Derek looked amused and stepped back so that Stiles could close the door and remove that particular safety hazard. Derek was wearing his usual dark jeans and leather jacket combo and was holding an overfull grocery basket.

"What, are you stalking me now?" Stiles tried to hold onto his earlier thread of anger and not get distracted by the hollow of Derek's throat peeking out over his dark grey shirt.

"No," Derek said, though he _had_ caught Stiles's scent from the other end of the grocery store and hastily abandoned the fresh tomatoes he'd been inspecting to go find Stiles.

"Good." Stiles clutched his Hungry Man dinner to his chest and reminded himself that, even if Derek had the most talented mouth Stiles had ever, and possibly _would_ ever, experience, he was still a dick. A huge dick. Fuck, now he was thinking about Derek's dick. Which was probably big, and thick, and—Stiles jerked his gaze up from where it had wandered down Derek's body.

"Are you here with your dad?"

"Do you smell gun oil?" Stiles raised his eyebrows.

Stiles's dad usually smelled more like whiskey than the oil on his service weapon, but Derek didn't have the heart to tell Stiles that. "No."

"He's working," Stiles said shortly.

"Let me make you dinner," Derek took a step towards Stiles.

"I can make my own dinner." Stiles brandished the Hungry Man box defensively.

"That's not dinner."

"Is too."

"Is not."

"Is too."

"Is—" Derek broke off with a growl. Why did conversations with Stiles always wind up like this? "Come on, I promise it will be better than," he paused for a second to read the description on the box "'Salisbury steak with mushroom and onion gravy'."

"I'm fine," Stiles insisted. He didn't need Derek's pity dinner. He was perfectly capable of feeding himself. He turned to head towards the tills but Derek reached out and caught his wrist in a light grip. Stiles could easily have pulled away, but the feel of Derek's fingers brushing against his skin held him still and sent his pulse racing.

"Please," Derek met Stiles's eyes. "Just dinner."

Stiles bit his lip. The Hungry Man steak did look pretty disgusting, and the last thing Derek had made him had been delicious. Sure, Stiles had been drunk so anything with a little grease would have tasted heavenly, but the confident way Derek had moved around his kitchen indicated that Derek was probably an excellent cook. A part of him felt like he needed to hold out for a real, honest-to-god 'I'm sorry', but Derek looked so uncertain. It was as if, despite the fact that he could hear and feel Stiles's heart thunder at his touch, Derek wasn't sure if Stiles would say yes. Damnit. Stiles could feel his resolve crumble, but he wasn't quite ready to let Derek completely off the hook.

"So," he tried to sound casual, "Like a date?"

"I—" Derek paused, licked his lips. "Yes. Like a date."

"'Like' a date, or a date?" Stiles could see Derek fighting not to squirm, and he had to bite the inside of this cheek to keep the grin off his face.

"A date." Derek swallowed.

Stiles paused, savouring the uncomfortable expression on Derek's face. "Okay. But I just came from lacrosse practice so I have to go home first."

Derek nodded, unable to help the feeling of relief that swept through him. "Meet me at my place in an hour?"

"I'll see you there." Stiles gave a jaunty wave before he turned and shoved the frozen dinner back into the freezer and headed to his car.

Standing under the spray from his shower, Stiles felt calm for the first time since Monday. He knew he'd left Derek's with a steady heartbeat and easy breathing, but that hadn't been because he was calm. That had been a cold state of nothingness. Now though, with the hot water beating down against his neck and shoulders, the clean smell of soap in his nose, and the knowledge that in less than an hour he'd be sitting in Derek's kitchen watching the werewolf cook for him, he felt completely and utterly relaxed.

Maybe this whole GHB thing would blow over as a spate of accidents that just happened to involve werewolves. Maybe the biggest problem Stiles would have this school year would be trying explain to his dad that he was dating the much older Derek Hale. Maybe all the crazy shit they'd dealt with throughout the last couple years was over now, done with, and he could finally focus on choosing a college major. He thought he might be leaning towards journalism, but he wasn't sure yet.

Turning the water off, Stiles stepped out from the shower, rubbing a towel vigorously over his hair. Now that it was longer, he actually had to dry it. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he squeezed some toothpaste onto his toothbrush and began to brush his teeth. He wondered if he should bring anything to Derek's? He had insisted that this evening was a date, and if a girl had been making Stiles dinner he definitely would have brought her flowers.

He leaned over and spat into the sink, grinning at his reflection at the thought of handing Derek a bouquet of roses. It was probably best just to bring himself. He put on some deodorant and hung up the towel, padding, naked, into his bedroom to pull on a fresh pair of boxers and jeans. Sitting on his bed to put on his socks he eyed his closet. He should wear something other than a t-shirt, right? Something with buttons.

Stiles made a face before getting up off the bed and walking over to his closet. The floor was a pile of discarded—but clean—clothes, and everything else was haphazardly hanging off the hangers. There were exactly three dress shirts at one end. There was the black one that he'd worn to his mother's funeral, which he wouldn't touch if it was literally the last item of clothing he owned, and there was the white one he'd worn to the Winter Formal, but it was still stained with Lydia's blood. He guessed that left the last shirt, a dark blue button down with the tags still on.

He pulled it off the hanger and tossed it on the bed while he rummaged around his desk for a pair of scissors to remove the tags. He'd been at the mall with Allison looking for an anniversary gift for Scott, back when she and Scott were still together, when she'd got it into her head that he needed to 'update his wardrobe' or whatever. She'd bullied him into buying the blue shirt, saying that the colour brought out his eyes.

Which was dumb, he reflected as he buttoned up the shirt in front of his mirror. His eyes were brown. They weren't like Derek's, that pale green that seemed to change tantalizingly from light to dark at any given moment. Derek had great eyes. Allison should teach Derek how to show off his eyes. Not that Derek really needed any help with that. His eyes were sort of a work of art on their own. And, really, once you combined them with his ridiculously long eyelashes and the full set of lips that looked so, so soft surrounded by all that rough stubble, well. Stiles cleared his throat and adjusted himself in his pants. Nature had helped Derek out more than enough already.

Stiles stepped back into his bathroom to run a comb and a tiny bit of gel through his hair. He wasn't very confident in his hair styling since he'd had less than an inch of hair for the majority of his life, but he thought it looked okay. He ran a critical eye over his reflection in the mirror. There was nothing he could do about the paleness of his skin or the light scattering of moles, but the shirt fit him well, and for once a suggestion of muscle could be seen through the thin fabric. He took a deep breath, suddenly nervous, and, with one last look at his reflection, he headed out the door.

If Stiles wanted a date, Derek would give him one. He'd left the grocery store without buying anything and had driven across town to the Italian market to pick up ingredients for spaghetti carbonara—something he was sure Stiles would enjoy. Once he'd arrived back at his place, he'd unpacked the groceries and ducked into his bathroom for a quick shower. He'd chosen a pair of black jeans that were darker and slightly less worn than his usual and paired them with a crisp white dress shirt.

He used the remote for his sound system to fill the loft with the quiet strains of Snow Patrol and glanced at the clock over the microwave as he stepped out of the bedroom. He still had about five minutes before Stiles was due to arrive. He moved into the kitchen and opened a drawer on the island to pull out a box of matches. He disappeared back into the bedroom for a moment and he came out holding two fat white candles. He placed one on the living room coffee table and the other in the middle of the island before lighting them and tossing the discarded matches in the garbage. Stiles would probably tease him for it, but Derek thought an Italian dinner was incomplete without some candlelight.

He could hear the sound of Stiles starting the elevator on the ground floor of the warehouse and it put a stupid, eager sort of smile on his face that he was glad no one else was around to see. Derek quickly schooled his features into a more neutral expression as the elevator stopped on his floor. He was in the process of opening the wine he'd chosen when Stiles walked through the open door and Derek's heart stopped for one long, endless beat.

The deep blue shirt Stiles was wearing lay open at the neck, framing the soft hollow of Stiles's throat. Against the blue, his skin looked pale and delicate, and Derek's fingers ached to touch him. But it was Stiles's eyes that caught and held him, the warm amber gold almost luminous in contrast to the dark blue material.

"Hi," Stiles couldn't help the flush of pleasure at Derek's stunned look. Maybe Allison had been on to something after all.

"Hi," Derek murmured, his gaze still fixed on Stiles.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Derek uncorked the wine and placed it on the counter before stepping around the island and making his way towards Stiles. Stiles swallowed, his mouth dry as he watched the smooth glide of Derek's muscles under his shirt. Derek stopped mere inches from Stiles and slid a hand around Stiles's waist, fingers splaying against his back and pulling him in so close that Stiles could feel the heat radiating from Derek's body. Derek's other hand rose to tilt Stiles's chin up and he lowered his lips towards Stiles.

"No," Stiles's voice was firm, though his pulse thrummed at Derek's touch. Derek stopped moving instantly, his lips a breath away from Stiles's. "Let's get this straight—you don't kiss me until I say you can. You're not my Alpha. You don't have any claim over me."

Derek's thumb stroked slowly over Stiles's chin and Stiles thought that Derek would kiss him anyway. Instead, he stepped back, and Stiles let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Would you like a glass of wine?" Derek's pleasant voice belied the dark heat that had risen in his eyes at Stiles's refusal. Stiles swallowed and tried not to think about what the heat in those eyes promised or how that unspoken threat had him taut with anticipation.

"Yes." He would be glad to have something to keep his hands and mouth busy. "Please," he added as an afterthought, suddenly feeling awkward. Maybe he should have let Derek kiss him. But no, Stiles squared his shoulders as he followed Derek into the kitchen and hopped onto one of the bar stools. He needed Derek to know that he wouldn't put up with the kind of shit Derek pulled earlier in the week.

On the other hand, he considered as he watched Derek pour him a glass of wine—white, this time—he might not be opposed to a little jealousy now and again. Monday had been fucking hot until Derek had taken it that one step too far. So maybe jealousy was okay, as long as Derek wasn't a total idiot about it.

Stiles lifted the glass to his lips and was pleasantly surprised by the taste. It was lighter and sweeter than the red, the bojowhatsit, he'd had last time. This was actually kind of good. He made a noise of approval as he took another sip. "What's this one called?"

"Frascati." Derek poured himself a small taste, swirling the wine around for a moment before taking a sip. Stiles licked his lips. He didn't know what it was about seeing Derek holding the fragile wine glass that made his skin feel hot and flushed, but he had to take another quick drink from his own glass before he lost all his credibility and asked Derek to kiss him when it hadn't even been five minutes since he'd told him not to.

That maybe hadn't been the most well thought out plan. It was a bit like shooting himself in the foot, really, but it was too late to back down. He'd have to give it at least an hour. Stiles figured he could last that long. Probably.

There was a long, slightly awkward beat of silence as Derek topped up his glass and Stiles's fingers played nervously around the stem of his own.

Derek opened his mouth as if to say something, and then closed it. He looked down at the glass of wine in his hand and back up at Stiles. He cleared his throat. "About Monday, I—"

Stiles cut him off with a shake of his head. "I know. It's fine." Derek looked like he might protest, so Stiles spoke again before he could. "It's fine," he insisted. Derek closed his mouth and Stiles didn't miss the way the tension he'd been carrying all evening seemed to slide out of him.

"So," Stiles mimicked Derek and swirled the wine in his glass. "What meal are you 'pairing' with this?" Yeah, that's right, he googled wine.

Derek rolled his eyes as Stiles nearly sloshed wine over the sides of his glass. "Spaghetti carbonara."

"Sounds yummy," Stiles was down with any pasta he didn't have to try and boil himself.

"It will be."

Stiles's eyebrows raised at Derek's casual arrogance, but he let it slide. Since he had no idea what the 'carbonara' part of 'spaghetti carbonara' meant, he couldn't really comment anyway.

Derek opened a cupboard and pulled out a large saucepan that he filled with water before setting it on the stove to boil. "Scott texted me earlier to say he got the ketamine from Deaton," he said while pulling a dish of butter out of a different cupboard and placing it on the island along with a butter knife and a small plate.

"Yeah," Stiles buttered the bun that Derek placed in front of him. "He gave me an EpiPen full of it in English class."

"Do you have it on you?"

"It's in the car—don't worry, _mom_, I keep it in my backpack at school," Stiles added when he saw the disapproving look on Derek's face. "But it's awkward to carry around in my pockets, and really, are you worried about someone drugging you in your own kitchen?"

Derek wasn't, but it was a matter of principle. "You should always have it with you," he insisted.

"Okay, okay, I'll tape it to my forehead when I get back to the car." Stiles rolled his eyes. "Have you heard anything else about this guy?"

Derek had pulled out a cutting board and a wicked looking knife and was using them to finely chop some thin, bacon-y looking meat. "Peter's keeping an eye on things."

Stiles snorted. "Yeah, I can see him trolling your message board." There was probably nothing lamer than a bunch of _werewolves_ communicating through a message board. A thought suddenly occurred to him, "So do you guys have like, usernames then?"

Derek didn't answer, just continued cutting.

"Oh my god," Stiles breathed delightedly. "You totally do." He wondered if he googled 'secret werewolf online club' he'd find the website. He popped the last bite of bread in his mouth. "Come on," he mumbled through a full mouth, "Tell me what yours is."

"No," Derek said, shortly. He scooped up the meat and set it to the side in a small bowl.

"Please?" Stiles wheedled.

"I don't know why you find this so fascinating," Derek grumbled. There was no way in hell he was letting Stiles find out what his username was. He moved to the fridge to pull out some parmesan and pecorino cheese.

"It's just lame, dude. Werewolves are supposed to be cool, not losers posting on message boards from their mothers' basements. It's kind of sad."

"It's practical. It's not supposed to be anything other than practical."

"But it's _so_ lame."

Derek placed another of the fresh Italian buns in front of Stiles and looked at him pointedly. Stiles picked it up and began to butter it. They were delicious buns, and they meant he could drink more of the wine without becoming totally hammered. He wanted to get a nice buzz going, but that was it. Speaking of delicious buns… a thought struck him, and he looked up at Derek with an accusing eye. "You're just trying to keep my mouth busy eating so I can't make fun of your dorky message board."

Derek let his gaze drop to Stiles's mouth. "Well," he licked his own lips, slow and deliberate. "Since you won't let me keep it busy with anything else…"

Stiles grinned, knowing exactly what Derek was doing. He licked some butter off his fingers, never breaking eye contact with Derek. "Bad dogs don't get treats."

"Is that so?" Derek came around the island and Stiles forced himself to stay still as the werewolf loomed behind him, his body a line of heat against Stiles's back though Derek was careful not to touch. "I thought," he said, running his fingertips lightly up the back of Stiles's neck and Stiles's hands clenched with effort not to shudder, "You liked it when I was bad?" His fingers reached Stiles's hair and tightened.

Stiles sucked in a breath.

Derek closed the distance between them and Stiles could feel the thick, hard shape of Derek's cock against his lower back. Stiles didn't fight the shiver that ran through him this time and Derek pressed in closer as he felt Stiles move against him. His other hand slid around Stiles's waist to cup Stiles's rapidly hardening dick between his legs. Stiles squirmed, caught between wanting to rub back against Derek's erection and wanting to thrust into his hand.

Derek gave a low chuckle in Stiles's ear, the hand in his hair fisting and pulling Stiles's neck back in a taut line. "What I think you're forgetting, Stiles," he murmured, and licked over the pulse that beat wildly in Stiles's neck, "Is that I'm not a bad dog. I'm the big, bad, wolf." His teeth closed over Stiles's throat and Stiles bucked helplessly, caught between too many sensations to stop a moan from escaping.

"That," Stiles managed, once Derek had pulled back slightly and Stiles could breathe normally, "is probably the corniest thing you've ever said." But Jesus fucking Christ, it had been hot.

Derek stepped away with a grin, giving the back of Stiles's head a swat as he moved to the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs. "You're just pissed 'cause that makes you Little Red Riding Hood."

"Does not." Damnit, it did. He shifted in the stool, having to adjust his jeans to accommodate for his painfully hard dick. He took some satisfaction in noticing that Derek was having the same difficulties. Stiles reached up to prod gingerly at the spot on his neck where Derek had bit him. His skin was still damp from Derek's tongue and he could feel a bruise forming. He swallowed, fingers rubbing over the bite mark once more to draw out a spark of pain that went straight to his cock.

Derek cracked the eggs into a mixing bowl, rolling up his sleeves to expose his muscular forearms while he beat them, and Stiles had to bite down on his lower lip to try and maintain some semblance of control. He seriously regretted his earlier decision about no kissing. If he hadn't done that, he probably could have persuaded Derek that dinner could wait an hour. Or two. But no, his idiot brain had decided to try and make some sort of point and now Stiles was going to have to make it all the way through dinner in this distracting state of arousal.

Well, okay, if he cried uncle he was sure Derek would give him a hand. Or mouth. But that would mean Stiles had lost, and he had no intention of losing. This was a game that two could play, and if there was one thing Stiles loved, it was a good game.

Derek ground a dash of black pepper over the eggs and set the bowl aside. He added the spaghetti to the water on the stove, which had now reached a boil. Stiles rested his elbows on the island and took a sip of wine, the crisp taste and cool slide of it down his throat giving him a measure of calm. He knew he wasn't exactly the kind of person who could pull off seductive—unlike Derek, who seemed to have that down to an art form—but that didn't mean he was entirely hopeless.

He took another swallow of wine, needing a bit of liquid courage, and spoke. "I was thinking about you last night when I jerked off." He could see Derek's shoulders tense from where he was carefully bruising a clove of garlic with the flat of a knife, his back to Stiles. Stiles caught his tongue between his teeth, waiting a beat before he continued. "I was thinking about sitting on your couch," he glanced over to it, feeling his heartbeat pick up slightly as he pictured the scene. "And you were standing in front of me." His lips parted unconsciously. "You made me press my hands on top of my thighs and told me I couldn't move them, and then…" Derek had stopped, hands frozen. Stiles swallowed, his own hands flexing around the wine glass as he remembered how the last time he'd thought about this he'd had his fingers wrapped around his dick and had been panting into his pillow. "Then you unbuttoned your jeans and brought out your cock," Stiles could feel his cheeks heating. "You had a hand in my hair so I couldn't move, and you started to fuck my mouth. Slowly, at first, 'cause you knew I'd never done that before, but then you started to speed up and I had to trust you not to make me choke…" he trailed off as Derek abandoned the garlic, stepping over to turn off the burner on the stove before turning around to face Stiles.

"Ask me." Derek's voice was hard, edged with something dark that made Stiles's breath hitch. "Ask me," he repeated as he began to stalk around the island towards Stiles.

Stiles felt a bright flash of triumph. If he were smart he'd probably just quietly accept his victory, but he couldn't help a cocky grin as he watched Derek close in on him. Stiles: 1, Derek: 0. "Don't you want to hear what happened next?" He tilted his head inquiringly. He wondered how much it would take to get Derek to completely lose control. The idea sent a hot rush of adrenaline through his veins. He really, really shouldn't taunt the angry werewolf, but he remembered Derek making him beg on Monday, and suddenly he didn't feel so charitable after all.

"Stiles," the low warning in Derek's voice was unmistakable.

Stiles slid off the stool, leaving it between him and Derek as he backed away. "You were so careful and I was relaxing into it, into the rhythm of you sliding over my tongue," he licked his lips at the memory, hoping that before the night was out he'd be able to feel the weight of Derek's cock in his mouth in more than just a fantasy.

A growl rippled out from Derek's throat as he shoved the stool to the side and continued pursuing Stiles, who continued backing up, not taking his eyes off Derek and just hoping he wouldn't trip.

"But then you stopped being careful." Stiles shivered, eyes dropping to where Derek's cock was clearly outlined in his jeans. "You—" he broke off because suddenly Derek was in front of him and his back was to the cold stainless steel of the refrigerator.

Derek's breath slid hot over Stiles's lips and he gave in. "Kiss me?" There was a moment where he thought Derek might refuse to, that he'd take the opportunity to punish Stiles, but then Derek's lips crashed brutally into his and Derek shoved his tongue into Stiles's mouth and Stiles's hands came up to fist in the crisp white fabric of Derek's shirt to drag him closer.

Derek nipped sharply at Stiles's lower lip, his hands moving around Stiles's waist to grab his ass and grind him into Derek. Stiles tasted the thick copper of blood in his mouth before Derek pulled back. Stiles tongue probed lightly at the small cut on his lip, surprised at the dull throb of pain. Derek brought his hand up to cup Stiles's chin, his thumb smearing through the drop of blood on Stiles's mouth as crimson swirled at the edges of his green irises. Stiles felt his knees weaken as Derek's thumb slipped past his lips into his mouth, and Stiles closed his lips around it, his tongue sliding against the pad of Derek's finger.

Derek's teeth flashed wide and white at Stiles, not so much as grinning as baring them. "Bedroom." He stepped back, dropping his hand. "Go." Stiles swallowed and turned hurriedly in the direction of the bedroom.

Derek grabbed the sound system remote from the kitchen counter before moving to follow Stiles and he hit the button that turned it off, plunging the loft into silence. As he stalked Stiles out of the kitchen he flicked the light switch and suddenly the two candles were the only source of light in the cavernous space. He could hear the leap in Stiles's pulse as the boy came to an abrupt stop.

"Derek?" There was a note of uncertainty in Stiles's voice as he blindly took a step forward. He could hear Derek's careful, measured footsteps behind him and felt the hair rise on the nape of his neck as he stumbled through the doorway to the dark bedroom. He felt like prey.

Unlike Stiles, Derek moved easily through the darkness. "The bed, Stiles." Derek said, close enough to Stiles that the boy could feel his breath damp against the shell of his ear. Stiles flinched, lurching away with his arms spread as he tried to orient himself in the dark. The loft was large enough that the candlelight from the kitchen and living room barely reached into the doorway of the bedroom, and everything beyond was a vast emptiness as far as Stiles could see. The bank of windows to his left had been shrouded in curtains and so he had only the vaguest idea that the bed was against the far wall and, if he remembered correctly, several feet to his right.

Stiles stopped, taking a deep breath as he tried to calm his rapid heartbeat. This wasn't hard. He'd been in this room before. He could find the bed. He just needed a second to get his bearings. He knew Derek wouldn't actually hurt him. Not permanently, anyway, but with just the right kind of pain/pleasure that had him mindless and greedy for more. Except that as he stood blind in the dark room with every sense on alert and the taste of his own blood in his mouth, he couldn't help the instinctive terror that came with being alone in the dark with something that might eat you.

He took a step forward, and when he encountered no resistance he took another, and another, until suddenly his shins were bumping up against a mattress and he gave a quick whoop of victory. He whirled around to try and see where Derek was but there was a sudden hand on his chest that shoved him and he toppled back with enough force that the breath left his lungs and he lay stunned and gasping until Derek's hand gripped tight in the front of his shirt and hauled him up until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, Derek standing with his thighs between Stiles's legs.

Stiles was still fighting to get his breath back when Derek's free hand came up to fist in his hair and drag his face forward so that he was pressed against the front of Derek's jeans. Stiles could feel the heat of Derek's cock through the denim and when Derek thrust obscenely against Stiles's face Stiles's hands clutched at Derek's thighs.

"No." Derek let go of Stiles's shirt to catch his wrist in an iron grip, his other hand still painfully tight in Stiles's hair. "No hands, remember?" He released Stiles's wrist and when Stiles was too slow to react Derek twisted his fistful of Stiles's hair making him bite back a whimper of pain as he flattened his trembling hands on top of his legs.

"Good," Derek's grip loosened slightly. "Good boy."

It was embarrassing how hearing those words come out of Derek's mouth made Stiles rub his cheek eagerly into Derek's cock, his own dick painful and aching in his jeans.

"Is this what you want?" Derek gave a lazy roll of his hips into Stiles, holding him still so that he couldn't press into it. "Is this," he brought his hand up and flicked open the button on his jeans, "What you've been thinking about doing? What you've been thinking of me doing to you?" He slid his zipper down and rolled his hips forward again so that the cold metal bit into Stiles's skin. Stiles's hands had stopped trembling and now they dug into his legs as he fought to stay still.

Derek overwhelmed all of Stiles's senses. With the room so dark and Derek pressed so close, Stiles felt like he might be drowning in the rough scratch of denim and the musky scent of Derek's arousal. It was Derek's hand tight and painful in Stiles's hair that tethered him as Derek's voice slid silkily through the darkness, low and purring with thunder.

"Do you think your little fantasy prepared you for this? For what it would actually be like for me to fuck into your mouth?" Derek pulled his cock out of his jeans, sliding the wet tip of it over Stiles's lips.

Stiles's tongue darted out, tasting bitter precome and brushing lightly over Derek's dick. As Derek pulled back Stiles tilted his head up as much as possible with Derek's hand still tight in his hair. He couldn't actually see Derek's face, just the looming suggestion of it above him, but he grinned, licking the taste of Derek from his lips. "I was hoping it'd be better, actually."

"I see." Derek stroked himself, and the breath Stiles had finally regained left him. "So you're ready for the feel of my cock in your throat? Being totally helpless, unable to stop me from just," Derek pushed the head past Stiles's lips. "Slamming in to see how far I can go?" He pulled out and pushed back in, slightly deeper this time.

Derek's words had Stiles squirming, skin flushed hot with mortification and need. He tried to make himself relax, tried to adjust to the alien feel of hard flesh stretching open his lips and pressing down against his tongue. Derek was right, this wasn't anything like Stiles had imagined it would be. Derek moved slowly, the hand in Stiles's hair almost a caress, fingers stroking gently over Stiles's skin as he continued to thrust steadily in and out, going deeper each time.

Stiles moved his tongue tentatively against the underside of Derek's dick and Derek's hips stuttered. Stiles felt a hot rush of pleasure and did it again. Derek chuckled above him and the sound of it had Stiles stilling, unnerved.

"It's that easy, is it? Already learning tricks." Derek pushed in again, faster and deeper than he had before. Stiles's eyes widened, his fingers tensing on his thighs as Derek's hand clenched tighter in his hair. Stiles fought the instinct to pull away, focusing on the smooth glide of Derek in and out of his mouth and the sharp taste of precome. His own cock strained against the confines of his jeans as Derek moved faster and Stiles had to struggle to breathe between thrusts.

Both of Derek's hands were in Stiles's hair now, holding him still and close as Derek's movements lost their steady rhythm. A particularly deep thrust had Derek's cock hitting the back of Stiles's throat and he gagged, throat spasming around Derek. Derek bit off a curse and Stiles could feel him getting ready to pull away as his orgasm neared. Fuck that, Stiles thought, and he moved his hands to grab the backs of Derek's thighs, holding him there despite Derek's strangled "Stiles!" as Derek's body shuddered and Stiles swallowed the hot, bitter spurts of his come.

Stiles released his grip on Derek's thighs as Derek withdrew from his mouth. He hadn't been able to swallow all of Derek's come and he licked the remainder off his lips, noting how the taste was different from his own. Derek's hands in his hair had slackened, and they moved down to cup Stiles's face, tilting it up so that Derek could bend down and press a warm kiss against Stiles's mouth, his tongue slipping past Stiles's spit-slick lips to taste himself. Stiles made a quiet, pleased noise in his throat and arched up into it, his hands resting back against the mattress to hold himself up as Derek pressed closer.

"You didn't have to do that," Derek murmured against Stiles's lips, thumbs stroking over Stiles's cheeks.

"I wanted to." Stiles could feel himself blush, which was silly considering what he'd just done. "I wanted to taste you."

Derek's eyes closed and he let out a measured breath, trying to retain some semblance of control. Stiles shifted slightly under him, all too aware of his own cock, still hard and aching in his jeans, and unsure about Derek's sudden silence.

Derek took one more slow breath, reining in his urge to throw Stiles back against the mattress and fuck him until he babbled incoherently. Stiles was new to this, and Derek wouldn't take things farther than he could handle.

Stiles opened his mouth, a question unformed on his lips but Derek interrupted him. "Move back." He nodded to the expanse of bed behind Stiles.

Stiles wet his lips and scooted back on the mattress until he sat in the middle, his legs sprawled in front of him and weight resting on his elbows. Derek let his eyes roam slowly over Stiles's body, lingering on the bare expanse of flesh that was exposed by the dark blue shirt rucking up over Stiles's hips. Stiles tried not to wriggle with embarrassment at the scrutiny.

Derek glanced up, catching the insecurity in Stiles's eyes. He shook his head, an amused smile curling his lips. "Do you know what you look like?" He asked, placing his hands on the bed and beginning a slow crawl up towards Stiles.

Stiles flushed and looked away, shaking his head. Derek had crawled up between Stiles's spread legs and now he shifted so that his knees pressed into the bed on either side of Stiles's hips, straddling him. Derek kept his gaze level with Stiles's as his hands moved to the buttons on Stiles's shirt and began undoing them one at a time. He could see the pulse jump in the hollow of Stiles's throat as his fingers grazed over the bare skin of Stiles's chest. The boy's lips were parted, colour high in his cheeks.

"You look—" Derek undid the last button on Stiles's shirt and slid his hands up Stiles's bare sides, parting the shirt so that the deep blue framed Stiles's pale skin. Derek dropped his eyes to follow his hands as they trailed back down Stiles's body to flick open the button on his fly. Fuckable. He was going to say Stiles looked fuckable. But, "You look like you belong here."

The raw honesty in his own voice surprised him and he paused with his fingers on Stiles's zipper.

Stiles let out a breath like he'd been holding it. By now his eyes had adjusted to the faint light from the candles in the other room enough that he could just make out Derek's face above him. It was pretty obvious that Derek hadn't meant to say what he'd said, and Stiles didn't want to make a big deal out of it. Though he couldn't help the odd flip his stomach gave at hearing it. "So that's your fantasy then," he joked, "Keeping me chained to your bed?"

Derek's teeth flashed in a grin, his fingers finishing their task of undoing Stiles's pants. "Why don't I show you exactly," his fingers curled under the waistbands of Stiles's jeans and boxers, "what I had in mind?" He yanked them both down Stiles's legs, pulling them off and tossing them in a heap to the floor behind them. "We'll save the chains. For next time." He didn't miss Stiles's sharp intake of breath and smirked as he slid his hands up the inside of Stiles's thighs, pressing them apart and open.

Stiles tensed as Derek moved up between his spread legs. He felt far more vulnerable than he'd like to, as Derek had tucked himself back into his jeans and, unlike Stiles, was still fully dressed. The denim of Derek's pants was rough against his skin, and Derek's weight pressed more fully into him as he reached past Stiles to open the drawer of the bedside table. Stiles's cock was more than happy to finally be receiving some attention and he found himself arching up into Derek.

Derek found what he was looking for and turned his attention back to Stiles, whose hands were busy sliding themselves up and under Derek's dress shirt, digging into Derek's back as Stiles rutted against him. Derek closed his eyes, pressing his forehead into the curve of Stiles's throat as he struggled to stay in control while the boy writhed under him, Stiles's breath coming in hot pants against Derek's skin. Derek took a deep breath, ignoring the rich scent of Stiles's arousal, and pulled back so that he knelt between Stiles's legs.

Stiles made a noise of protest, his hands scrabbling at Derek's skin to try and keep him pressed close.

Derek bent down and took Stiles's cock into his mouth, running his tongue across its underside as his hand gripped Stiles's hip and held him down when he tried to buck up into the wet heat of Derek's throat. Derek moved up and down over Stiles's dick once, twice, letting the saliva that gathered in his mouth slide down the length of it before he replaced his lips with his hand.

The change in pressure had Stiles swearing and arching up off the bed as Derek's hand moved easily over him.

"Stiles." Derek's left hand continued to pump Stiles's dick as his right skimmed down past Stiles's balls to run light fingers over the puckered flesh of Stiles's hole. Stiles didn't seem to hear Derek, his hands clenching into tight fists in Derek's sheets as he thrust into Derek's hand.

"Stiles." Derek repeated, his hand lifting off Stiles's dick so he could be sure he had the boy's full attention.

"What?" Stiles tried to focus on Derek with eyes blurred with desire.

Derek circled Stiles's entrance with the pad of his thumb, watching carefully as Stiles's eyes lost their focus and he writhed into the touch. "Can I?" Derek asked, fingers pulling away as he reached for the bottle of lube that he'd retrieved from the bed stand and placed on the mattress beside him.

Stiles stilled for a second, biting his lip before he nodded.

"That's not enough." Derek flicked open the cap on the lube. "Say it."

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, turning his face away as his cheeks heated in embarrassment. "Yes."

Derek slicked his fingers with lube, rubbing them together so that when he finally pressed them against Stiles the liquid had warmed against his skin. Derek's other hand returned to Stiles's cock, resuming its steady up and down rhythm. Stiles stilled as Derek's fingers slid against the delicate skin of his hole, rubbing lightly over the puckered skin. The light touch frustrated him and he pushed back into it, hips rising off the mattress in a silent plea for Derek to give him more.

Derek quickened the movement of his hand on Stiles's cock and as Stiles moaned he pushed the tip of his index finger past the tight rim of muscle and into the heat of Stiles's body. Derek had to clench his teeth to stop a groan from escaping as Stiles's body tightened around him. He continued to stroke Stiles's dick with a smooth, even rhythm and let Stiles take a moment to adjust to the unfamiliar sensation.

The burn of the intrusion made Stiles suck in a quick breath, his heart beating in his throat like a wild thing. He took a couple shallow breaths before opening his eyes and looking down his body to see Derek watching him, cool green eyes steady on Stiles's face as he waited for Stiles to give him the go ahead. Derek's patient, level gaze slowed Stiles's breathing and he reminded himself that Derek wouldn't do anything that Stiles wasn't okay with. Stiles felt himself relax, slipping back into the pleasure-heady haze of Derek's hand on his dick.

"Okay," Stiles said, hips jerking as Derek's thumb slid over the head of his dick. "Okay, you can keep—" he broke off as Derek's finger pressed deeper inside of him, and Stiles's head fell back against the mattress at the feeling.

Derek's hand on Stiles's cock moved faster and he slowly curled his finger inside of Stiles as he leaned down to sink his teeth into the curve of Stiles's hip. Stiles made a choked noise and bucked up as Derek's finger pressed against his prostate and Derek's vision swam scarlet as he fought to keep his teeth blunt and human as they dug bruises into Stiles's skin. Stiles came with a strangled "Derek!", his come spilling hot and wet over Derek's fist as his body clenched around Derek's finger.


End file.
